City of Angels
by StarSpangledBanner27
Summary: (Saving Mr. Banks, AU). What if the author of the Mary Poppins books had been someone very different from P. L. Travers? For Carrie Schultz, the chance to collaborate with Walt Disney Studios to bring Mary Poppins from the page to the screen is a dream come true. But with secrets, romance, and animated penguins involved, it turns out to be more difficult than she had expected.
1. Chapter 1

Fandom: _Saving Mr. Banks_ (AU)

Description: AU take on the movie, exploring what might have happened if the author of the Mary Poppins books had been someone very different from P. L. Travers. For Carrie Schultz, the chance to collaborate with Walt Disney Studios to bring Mary Poppins from the page to the screen is a dream come true. However, matters grow complicated when animated penguins prove to be a point of contention, a friendly working relationship turns into more than she bargained for, and Carrie struggles to prevent Walt's team from discovering her own hidden afflictions.

Characters: Carolina "Carrie" Schultz (OC), Don DaGradi, Walt Disney, Richard M. Sherman, Robert B. Sherman, Ralph

Rating: T

Genre: Drama/Romance

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**To Laura, Amber, Brittany, and Dr. Riley: Thank you so much for beta-reading my work and providing constructive feedback. This story would not be what it is without your advice and encouragement.**

**To my mom: Thank you for always being there for me. Posting my work was a big step, and I am immensely grateful for your loving support.**

**A/N: Readers, please note that as this story is an AU, the first two chapters will focus entirely on OCs. That being said, if you as a reader are like me and prefer to jump straight to the parts involving canon characters, I will direct you to the middle of Chapter 3 (coming soon), in which my main OC meets Ralph at the airport. Either way, I hope you enjoy the story and, of course, leave reviews! :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Saving Mr. Banks**_**, **_**Mary Poppins**_**, ****or any of the characters from those two movies.**

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Chapter 1

_I am seated on a bench in the garden with a pencil held idle in my hand and my notebook lying on my lap, my eyes closed and my face turned upward to the summer sky. A smile curves my lips as a soft breeze comes up out of the west to dance through my hair. Somehow this all seems strangely familiar, yet I can't put my finger on why. _

_The breeze flutters around for half a minute, tickling my ear and stroking my hair, before leaving a parting kiss on my cheek and flying off toward the east. But no, wait—its farewell was only a playful trick; it has now doubled back around to greet me once more . . . only this time, instead of caressing me gently, it bites my nose and pinches my ears, twirling my hair into a tangle as it careens westward. And then, almost as soon as it returns, it is gone. _

Strange, _I muse. _How odd for a steady west wind to suddenly stop like that and return from the east. Wind's in the east . . . _I can't help smiling to myself as I gaze up at the clouds, half expecting a certain British nanny to come floating down out of them carrying a carpet-bag and a parasol. But my thoughts are interrupted by a sharp rapping noise. _

_Knock-knock-knock!_

_I glance around, perplexed as to the source of the sound until at last I glimpse a woodpecker hammering away at a nearby tree. I watch him with an inexplicable feeling that he doesn't belong here—that I have been here in this exact moment before, and he hasn't. _

_Knock-knock-knock!_

_His persistent tapping disturbs me. I wish he would stop. _

_Knock-knock-knock!_

"_Shoo!" I cry; but he carries on with his task, unperturbed and undistracted. _

_Knock-knock-knock! _

_I shout at him and wave my arms wildly, but he ignores me. _

_Knock-knock-knock!_

_The noise is exasperating. I press my hands over my ears, but it remains as loud and clear as ever. Why will he not cease?! Why can I still hear it?! Why is there no escape?!_

_Knock-knock-knock!_

_Knock-knock-knock!_

_Knock-knock-knock . . . _

Knock-knock-knock!

I ascended out of dreamland long enough to wonder who was at the door, then promptly decided I was too tired to care. Just as I was drifting back to sleep, my sister burst into my bedroom. "Rise and shine, Carrie!"

"Mmph . . . what's going on?" I mumbled.

She threw the curtains open before coming over to kneel beside my bed. "Today's the day, sis. If you don't get up, you'll miss your plane."

"What plane?"

"You're going to Los Angeles, remember?"

At that moment it all came back to me—my book, Mary Poppins, Disney—and I sat up frantically, throwing the covers off. "Oh my gosh, I forgot! What time is it?!" I pressed my hand to my forehead, partly in panic and partly because the too-swift motion had given me a throbbing headache.

"Shh . . . relax, Carrie. It's only eight o'clock; you have plenty of time. But you need to get up and get ready now."

I nodded. "Okay." I slid forward to the edge of the bed and waited, gathering my strength. My sister watched for several minutes; and finally, when I made no move to stand up, she laid her hand on my back.

"Carrie . . . do you need help?"

"Maybe just a little," I said without meeting her eyes. I hated asking for help to complete such a simple task; yet at that moment I just didn't have the strength in me. Fortunately, she understood; and without another word, she wrapped her arm around my waist and supported me as I dragged myself to my feet. "Thank you," I whispered.

"What are sisters for?" she replied with a grin that somewhat alleviated my embarrassment.

She stayed there holding me up long enough to let me find my balance. At last I managed to take a few shaky steps over to my dresser and lean against it as I pulled open the door to my closet. She stood there watching me for several moments, and finally she spoke again.

"Are you okay now if I leave the room so you can get changed?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"All right. I'll be out here if you need anything." Just as she was opening the door to go out, she paused and turned back to me. "Carrie . . . are you sure you still want to do this? Because you know in Los Angeles I won't be there to help you out of bed."

Part of me resented her for saying that. _I'm not an invalid yet!_ I wanted to scream. But deep down, I knew she was right. I sighed deeply. "I'll make it somehow. I have to do this, Sam. Otherwise I'll never get the chance. Anyway, it's just the first few minutes of the day that are always the hardest; once I get going, it's not so bad."

She nodded. "Yeah, okay. I'm going to head downstairs and make breakfast." But once again she paused and looked at me with soulful eyes. "I love you, sis."

"Love you too," I replied, trying and failing to muster a carefree smile. I turned away lest she see the tears in my eyes; and behind me I heard the door close as she exited, leaving me alone. Drawing a shaky breath, I chose a dress from the closet and changed out of my nightgown, noticing with dismay that my body was going through the motions a little more slowly than yesterday or the day before.

As I slipped my dress on over my head, I could hear the clanking of pots and pans down in the kitchen as Sam cooked. The noise made something tickle at the edge of my mind—clanking . . . banging . . . knocking. The woodpecker. _The dream._

That dream—it haunted me at least three times a week. I couldn't escape. The sequence was always the same . . . except this time it had been interrupted by that blasted bird, which I now realized had sprung up as a dream-world manifestation of an actual sound—my sister's knocking on my door to wake me up. I paused for a moment, considering that I ought to be thankful, for I knew what would have happened in the dream if I hadn't woken up. Always the same, exactly as it had been on that first day . . .

No—I would not think about it, not on a day like this. Today, of all days, I should be happy. _I am going to Los Angeles . . . _the very thought sent a surge of energy through me, and I scurried off to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

Thirty minutes later, I descended the stairs, the smell of breakfast greeting me as I entered the main part of the house. I stepped into the kitchen just as my sister, who was facing the sink, called out loudly, "_Carrie! _Are you almost ready?!"

"Hey, Sam," I replied, amused. She whirled around in surprise.

"Carrie! I thought you were still upstairs! Oh, gosh, I must have blown your ears out."

"Well, at least they're still attached," I bantered, but for once she didn't laugh. Instead, she came over and wrapped her arms around me.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her voice betraying that she was close to tears. I pulled away, unable to bear it.

"Sam, since when are you so concerned about my eardrums?" I teased.

"I'm sorry, it's just . . . I don't want to cause you any more pain than you're already . . ."

"It's okay, sis, nothing to worry about."

"But—"

"Sam, please. You promised you wouldn't do this, remember? I told you, I'm fine."

She nodded, turning back to the counter to wipe her eyes. "Well, anyway, breakfast's up."

"Ooh, yum!" I exclaimed, eager to change the subject. "What's on the menu this morning?"

"Bacon and pancakes," she replied. Her voice was still quiet and sad, but I could tell she was trying to conceal it for my sake. "Have a seat at the table, and I'll bring it in."

"Well, let me help."

"It's okay, I've got this. You go sit down."

"Sam . . ."

"You need to focus on getting ready, Carrie," she said firmly, looking me in the eye, and I knew better than to argue. With a sigh of resignation, I headed into the dining room.

The first thing I noticed as I sat down was that Sam's husband, who always joined us for breakfast, was missing. "Sam," I called, "where's James?"

"Oh, I sent him outside to check on the car," she explained, bustling into the room with a plate of steaming pancakes and bacon.

"What's wrong with the car?" I asked as she set the plate down in front of me.

"Nothing, as far as I know," she replied, "but we can't have you being late to the airport because of car trouble."

I stared at her. "It's a twenty-minute drive to the airport, and your car is in perfect condition. What's there to worry about?"

"I'm not taking any chances, Carrie. This is your special day, and I won't let anything ruin it." With that, she marched off to the kitchen, chin held high. Once she left the room, I chuckled to myself and said a quick blessing before beginning to eat.

Just then, I heard the front door open. "Hey, honey, I'm all done!" James called as he shut the door behind him. From where I sat looking through the doorway, I could see him enter the kitchen and lean against the wall, inhaling deeply. "Mmm, what's for breakfast?"

"Pancakes and bacon," she replied. "How's the car looking?"

"Clean and healthy as always, just like I told you it would be," he reassured her.

"The tank is full?"

"Yep."

"You changed the oil?"

"Already did that yesterday."

"And you checked everything else?"

"Yes, yes, and yes." He moved to stand behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Sweet Samantha, haven't you learned by now to trust your husband?"

She turned to face him. "A better question is, haven't _you_ learned by now to humor your wife?"

He laughed. "Touché." They stood there grinning at each other for several moments before he leaned in to kiss her, at which point I decided to remind them of my presence.

"A-he-hem!" I peered through the doorway at them. "Guys, I hate to interrupt, but we do have to be at the airport in an hour."

They pulled apart and looked over at me sheepishly. "Sorry, sis," Sam giggled.

I sighed and shook my head in mock exasperation; but truly, I was happy for them. They had something special, something I had always dreamt of . . . and something fate had chosen to deny me. I felt a little twinge of bitterness at the last thought, but I quickly suppressed it. _It's not their fault, _I reminded myself. _It's not anyone's fault._

Before I could dwell any longer on this train of thought, James entered the dining room with a full plate for himself and one for Sam. "So, Carrie, are you excited to spend three weeks in Los Angeles?" he asked as he set them on the table.

"Excited? Yes . . ."

Detecting my slight hesitation, James caught my eye and smiled understandingly. "Nervous?"

"A little," I admitted.

Sam walked through the doorway just in time to catch the end of our conversation. "What are you nervous about, Carrie?" she asked, laying her hand on my shoulder.

I took a moment to swallow my bite of bacon before answering. "Well, meeting Walt Disney, for one thing. That man's a walking legend, and I'm just . . . me." A thirty-year-old author from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, flying halfway across the country to act as consultant for a movie adaptation of _my _book.

"So?" James asked through a mouthful of pancake.

Sam shot him one of her "you men can be so insensitive" looks before turning back to me. "Oh, Carrie, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about as far as that goes. Remember, underneath all that fame, he's just another human. Don't let yourself be intimidated."

I gave a half-smile, and she patted my back encouragingly before sitting down to eat. _Easier said than done,_ I thought in regard to her advice. I only prayed everything would go smoothly; for if it didn't, I doubted I'd have what it took to face down the Mickey Mouse mogul himself.

The three of us finished breakfast with time to spare; and while Sam cleared the table, James headed upstairs and brought down my suitcase and carry-on bag to load in the car. I offered to help with the dishes, but Sam wouldn't hear of it; so instead I went up to fetch my purse and make one last trip to the bathroom.

After washing my hands, I leaned against the sink for a few minutes, staring into the mirror. There I was, about to spend three weeks in Los Angeles helping make my book into a movie, something many authors only dream of; and at that moment, the only thought in my head was—_am I up to this?_ The Carrie in the mirror stared back at me, her eyes full of doubts and questions; but before I could give either of us a definitive answer, I heard Sam call from the bottom of the stairs. "Carrie! You ready to go?!"

Taking a deep breath, I stood up straight and squared my shoulders. "Coming!" I replied; and without further hesitation, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks to my friends who read Chapter 1 and messaged me to comment on it, and a special thank-you to LexLemon on AO3 for leaving kudos! I'm so glad you guys are enjoying the story so far. Can't wait to hear your thoughts on Chapter 2! :)**

**Also, I am planning to post my other _Saving Mr. Banks _fanfic sometime this week, so keep an eye out for that if you're interested.**

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Chapter 2

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time—with no car trouble, despite Sam's worrying. "Well, it never hurts to double-check!" she retorted when I teased her about it.

During the weeks I'd been waiting for this, the time had seemed to crawl; now, everything was happening all at once. We checked my luggage; we reached the gate; and finally, the only thing left was to say our goodbyes.

James was first, simply because he was easier. "Good luck, Carrie," he said, giving me a brief hug.

"Thanks," I replied. "Take good care of Sam for me."

He nodded. "You bet." And with that, he strolled over to look at a newspaper stand so my sister and I could talk.

Sam took my hands in hers and held my gaze for several moments. "Well," she said at last, "you ready for this?"

I drew a deep breath. "About as ready as I can be."

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "Okay."

I could tell she was fighting back tears, so I reached out and laid my hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to be fine, Sam. You know that, right?" She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again and shook her head as the flood spilled over. "Oh, Samantha," I murmured as I wrapped my arms around her.

"I'm sorry, Carrie," she sobbed, holding me tightly. "I wanted to be strong for you, but I'm just so scared!"

"Of what, Sam?"

"Well, it's just . . . what if—oh, I don't even want to say it! What if . . . what if something happens while you're out there? What if you never . . ." she trailed off, sobbing uncontrollably.

I bit my lower lip to hold back my own tears as I rubbed her back gently. "That's not going to happen," I declared, as much for my own sake as for hers. I would not let her know the truth—that the fears she had just voiced were the very same ones that had been whirling through my head ever since the plans for this trip had been finalized.

At last, having regained her composure, she pulled away and held me at arm's length. "If anything does happen, you let me know, and I'll come right away. You won't be alone. And I'll call and check on you every day, just like I promised, remember?"

I nodded. "Mm-hmm."

Her eyes probed mine. "You know, Carrie, if you don't feel up to this, there's still time to change your mind. We can go back home and call your agent—tell her to let Disney know it's not going to work."

"No," I said firmly. "No, I want to do this. I know I'll regret it if I don't."

"All right then," she said. "I'll be thinking of you. I know you'll have a great time."

I smiled. "You'll call me?"

"Every night. Just remember to give us a call when you get to your hotel and let me know you arrived."

"I will, for sure."

Just then, the P.A. system crackled, and a man's voice spoke through it. _"Attention, passengers. We are now boarding Flight 327A to Los Angeles. Please proceed to the gate and have your boarding pass ready. Thank you."_

I turned back to Sam. "Well, I guess it's time to go."

She squeezed my hands tightly. "Have a good trip, Carrie. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too." I hugged her one last time. "Thank you for everything."

"I'm so proud of you, little sis," she whispered in my ear. Then she pulled away once more. "Now, go get 'em!"

Too emotional to speak, I simply nodded, smiling, and squeezed her hands one last time before hurrying off to get in line. In no time at all, I had reached the counter, my pass was checked, and I was just about to board the plane when I heard Sam call my name.

"Carrie!"

I turned around to see her standing with James. "I love you!" she said.

A lump formed in my throat, and I gulped it down with difficulty before replying. "Love you too!"

"We'll be waving as you take off!" she called. I nodded, and then quickly turned away and boarded the plane before she could glimpse the tears in my eyes.

Once inside, I somehow managed to jam my carry-on bag into the overhead compartment before flopping down with a sigh into my assigned seat, allowing my eyes to drift shut as I waited for all the hustle and bustle to cease. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was really only several minutes, the aisles cleared, the other passengers settled into their seats, and the stewardess announced that we would be taking off soon. A moment later, I felt the plane start to move; and I sat up a little straighter in my seat, gazing out the window as we taxied away from the gate.

When we reached the runway, there was a long, pregnant pause as we waited for our turn to depart. Then, at last, I heard the pilot's voice through the loudspeaker: "_Ladies and gentlemen, we are cleared for takeoff"—_andwith that, the plane began rolling forward again. My heart pounded as I watched the ground rush past beneath us, faster and faster by the second—until, with a mighty roar of the engines, we lifted off, leaving ground and gravity behind altogether.

"Well, this is it," I murmured to myself. "No turning back now."

xxxxx

_Sunday, April 2nd, 1961_

_Dear Sam,_

_In the time-honored tradition of air travelers everywhere who suffer from lack of amusement, I am taking this opportunity to describe for you the details of my flight. _

_We've had a smooth ride so far. I spent the first few minutes after takeoff gazing around the interior of the plane. Blue carpet in the aisle, blue plush seats, smiling stewardess in a blue starched skirt and jacket—that's about all there is to notice in here. But the view from the window . . . oh, Sam, it's positively magical! You know how people talk of the horizon—where the land meets the sky—and of what lies beyond it. But do you know that the sky has a horizon of its own? I am looking at it right now—a subtle yet captivating line off in the distance, where the sky above meets the sky below. What lies beyond __this__ horizon must surely be a land too glorious for mere mortals to inhabit. I call it sky; but in truth, it is no sky, not really. Rather, it is a sea—a sea of cool, clear blue and soft, misty white, all bathed in the golden glow of the sun. Do you think Heaven is like this? I imagine it must be._

_Up here above the clouds, where the sun is bright and the air is clear, my imagination runs free, and nothing seems quite impossible. I confess that as I look out my window, I half expect to see Mary Poppins herself perched regally on a cloud puff with her talking umbrella and bottomless carpetbag beside her. Do you suppose that if she saw me, she would condescend to wave hello, or would she be too busy admiring herself in her hand-mirror? _

_I'm running out of room now; but before I finish, I want to say once more that I love you, dear sister, and I miss you already. By the time this letter reaches you, I will probably have been in Los Angeles for a few days, and will be missing you even more. I know you'll be thinking of me; but I hope you will not waste any time worrying about me. Instead, enjoy your time alone with James, and take this opportunity to care for yourself and look after your own needs for a change. I know I'll be having fun in L.A., and you should be having fun, too—because nothing can keep the Schultz sisters down._

_Well, that's all for now! I'll see you again very soon. Till then, I am_

_Your little sis forever,_

_Carrie_

_P.S. I hope you made it back from the airport without any car trouble. _

_Sunday, April 2nd, 1961_

_Dear James, _

_I hope that by the time this reaches you, things are going well back home. I've already written a letter to Sam, but I also wanted to write one specifically to you, because, as Sam's sister, there is something I must speak to you about. _

_When I left this morning, you promised me that you would take good care of Sam; and I know you would have even if I hadn't told you to. But there is another, more specific, thing that I wish to ask of you, which is this: don't let her worry too much about me while I'm gone. If she does worry, then listen to her and comfort her as you always do; but make sure she enjoys herself as well. _

_The two of you now have the house all to yourselves for a while, so take this time to romance her and make her feel special. I can't help noticing that over the past year, Sam has too often allowed her own needs to go unmet in favor of mine. I know she would never admit it, but she has been much more exhausted lately than I've ever seen her before; yet she will not let herself rest from taking care of me. Now that I'm gone, though, she needs someone to look after __her__ for a change—to attend to __her__ needs, listen to __her__ concerns, and lavish __her__ with the attention she so deserves. You already do all those things, but I ask that you use these three weeks to give her an extra dose of love. And, that being said, I know you need no __further __encouragement; so I guess all that's left now is to say thank you. I know my sister is safe in your hands, and that knowledge is a more precious gift than you can imagine. Thank you so much. _

_Your sister-in-law,_

_Carrie_

Too tired to write any more, I tucked the letters into my purse, then glanced around the plane at the other passengers. Some, like I had been a minute ago, were writing letters to family and friends, or notes on the postcards the stewardess had handed out earlier. Others were chatting with their seatmates; and a few, as evidenced by the raucous laughter from towards the back, were apparently taking full advantage of the free beverage services available during the flight.

My own seatmate, a middle-aged, pot-bellied man, had fallen asleep about ten minutes after we left the ground; and the only sound I'd heard from him before that had been a curt grunt of acknowledgement as he sat down next to me. _Could be worse_, I mused. _At least he's not smoking. _Neither was anyone else, for that matter—an uncommon circumstance for which I was grateful. In a condition like mine, I hated to think what even one whiff of secondhand smoke might do.

At last, after I had people-watched for several minutes, my exhaustion overcame me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, listening to the friendly conversations taking place all around and the quiet hum of the airplane, sounding like a summer breeze.

xxxxx

_I am sitting on a bench in the garden—a pencil in my hand, my notebook on my lap, my eyes closed, and my face turned upward, smiling slightly as a breeze plays through my hair—when suddenly two hands grab my shoulders, and a voice comes from right behind my ear. "Boo!" _

"_EEK!" I jump out of my chair and whirl around in one swift motion, dropping my notebook and pencil in the grass. "Sam! You scared me half to death!" She stands there grinning, unfazed. I place my hands on my hips. "Don't look so satisfied with yourself, Samantha." She wriggles her eyebrows. I raise my index finger and advance threateningly towards her. "I'm warning you!"_

"_Oh, really?" She waits with a mischievous smirk as I approach; then, when I'm just a few steps away, she shoots her hands out and tickles me in the ribs, rendering me helpless with laughter. _

"_Sam—haha—Sam—stop!" I gasp between giggles. She pulls away and takes off running across the yard. Laughing, I chase after her. "All right, now you're in for it!" _

"_Gotta catch me first!" she teases, glancing back over her shoulder. _

"_Oh, you better believe I will!"_

_She rounds the corner of the house with me in hot pursuit. My legs and arms are pumping wildly and my breathing has quickened to compensate, when suddenly a sharp pain springs forth in my lungs, and I am seized by a paroxysm of coughing unlike any I've ever experienced before. My legs go weak, and I collapse in a heap on the grass, chest convulsing out of control._

"_Carrie!" In an instant, Sam is kneeling on the ground beside me. "Carrie, are you okay?"_

"_Can't—stop—coughing," I choke out. _

"_Okay. Okay. Just take deep breaths for me. Try to relax. You're all right." She rubs my back gently. _

_I strain against the coughs, trying with all my might to repress them. Every breath I draw feels like a knife being thrust through my ribs; but if I stop breathing, then my body screams for oxygen. All the while, I hear Sam's voice beside me—"It's okay, Carrie; I'm here. Deep breaths." But the coughing will not stop. There is no way to end it, no way out, no escape. I writhe helplessly in the grass, begging God to make it stop . . . and then, all of a sudden, I look up to find everything changed—I am alone in a large, dark room, and my sister has vanished. In a panic, I attempt to cry out for her, but my voice will not come; meanwhile, I notice for the first time that the floor has detached from the wall and is rocking back and forth, back and forth. The entire room seems to spin—or maybe it's just my own head—and a strange whooshing sound fills my ears. Still coughing, I struggle to maintain my grip as the floor tilts precariously beneath me. The walls by now have dissolved into amorphous blotches of dull color that swim and blend and fade in turn. I cough and cough . . . the blotches dilate and contract . . . the floor's tilt grows steeper and steeper . . . until at last I can hold on no longer, and I roll off the edge into nothingness—falling . . . falling . . . _

_DING!_ I was jolted awake by a loud chime, soon followed by the captain's voice over the intercom: _"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Los Angeles_." I blinked groggily as his words registered in my slumber-fogged brain. Had I really just slept through most of the flight? Sure enough, I looked over to see the stewardess making her way down the aisle, checking to see that all passengers had fastened their seat belts for landing.

I yawned and stretched slightly before glancing out the window just in time to glimpse the city of Los Angeles, and the Pacific Ocean beside it, spread out beneath us as our plane banked to the left. Something about the tilt of the plane tugged at the edge of my mind, and then I remembered—the dream. The coughing, the floor rocking beneath me. I shook my head with a sigh of frustration, but I could not shake the memories that insisted on resurfacing . . . so I resigned myself to staring blankly out the window as my mind replayed everything that had occurred that day in the garden.

_Laughing, I chase Sam across the yard. "All right, now you're in for it!"_

"_Gotta catch me first!" _

"_Oh, you better believe I will!"_

_But just as I round the corner of the house, a sharp chest pain and a wild fit of coughing bring me to the ground in a heap. Sam rushes to my side. "Carrie, are you okay?"_

"_Can't—stop—coughing!"_

"_Okay. Okay. Just take deep breaths for me. Try to relax. You're all right." _

_At last, after several minutes, the coughs subside, leaving me drained of energy. "What happened, Carrie?" Sam asks with concern. _

_I shake my head. "I don't know. I just started coughing all of a sudden, and then it wouldn't stop."_

"_Maybe you inhaled a speck of pollen or something. Are you all right now?"_

"_I think so; I just feel a little weak."_

"_Want to go inside and rest?"_

"_No, I'll be fine. I want to stay out here and keep working."_

"_Okay. Here, let me help you up." She extends her hand, and I take it, letting her pull me to my feet. _

_I cast a mischievous glance at her. "You know, if it weren't for that coughing fit, I definitely would have caught you."_

_She smirks. "Wanna bet?"_

"_Well, next time for sure." I wink. _

_She laughs. "We'll see about that. I'm going to head back inside."_

_She walks away, and I return to my seat on the bench, retrieving my notebook and pencil from the grass. What I haven't admitted to Sam is that the pain is still there—lodged in my chest, now more like a rock than a knife, but still unlike anything I've ever felt before. I draw a slow, shaky breath. "Just a speck of pollen, Carrie," I tell myself. "Nothing to worry about."_

My mind landed back in the present just as our plane came to land on the concrete. I blinked and shook my head again. _Forget all that, Carrie, _I told myself. _You have three weeks here. Enjoy it while it lasts._

And so, for the moment, I closed the window on the past and instead began to contemplate what the coming days would hold. Heart swelling with anticipation, I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. This was real. This was happening. _Please, dear God, let it go well._


	3. Chapter 3

**A big thank-you to those who read Chapter 2 and messaged me to comment! Your support means the world. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this new part. :) **

**In this chapter, we get to see some of Ralph (yay!); and then in Chapter 4, the rest of the canon characters will make their entrances . . . so stay tuned, because things are about to get interesting! **

* * *

Chapter 3

As we waited for our plane to taxi up to the gate, I stared out the window, thinking of Disney and Mary Poppins and trying not to think of coughing fits and chest pains. At last we arrived, and suddenly everyone was standing up and rummaging through the overhead compartments and pushing and shoving and jostling their way out. Somehow amidst all the chaos I managed to grab my carry-on bag, thank the stewardess, and exit the plane without getting knocked over. Then, having accomplished that, I made my way through the jet bridge and emerged into Los Angeles International Airport.

A little distance from the gate, I paused to catch my breath before attempting to locate the baggage claim. As I stood there watching the crowds of people swarm in twenty different directions, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Excuse me."

I turned to see a young redheaded woman in a pink dress holding a toddler in her arms, and I recognized her as the passenger who'd been sitting directly in front of me during the flight. "Yes?" I answered.

Her eyes probed mine with concern. "Forgive me for asking this; it's probably none of my business, but . . . I thought I heard you crying a few times during the trip, and I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

I could feel the blood rush to my face as my eyes widened with embarrassment. "I was . . . crying?" She nodded. "Oh dear," I stammered. "I-I hope I didn't disturb anyone."

"Oh, don't worry about that; it's you I'm concerned about. Is everything all right?"

"Y-yes—I mean, it is now. I just . . . I fell asleep on the plane ride and started having nightmares. But I'm fine now."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she sympathized. "Nightmares are terrible."

I shook my head. "It's fine, really. But thank you for asking."

An awkward pause ensued; and not knowing what else to do, I made a show of scanning the airport as if I were looking for someone. At last I turned back to the young woman, who was still standing there. "Well . . . I should get going. My ride will probably be here any minute if it isn't already, and I still need to pick up my luggage."

"Oh, actually, that's just where I was headed next. Do you mind if I walk with you?" she asked.

"No, not at all," I replied, and so the two of us set off in the direction of the baggage claim. Since we were walking along together, I figured I might as well make conversation. "So, what brings you here to Los Angeles?" I asked.

"I'm visiting my brother and his family," she said with a smile. "His wife is about to have their third child, and I'm here to help out. My husband was planning to come along too, but he had a last-minute business thing come up, so he'll be joining us in a few days."

"Ah," I said. "Well, congratulations to your brother and his wife. Are they excited?"

"Oh, yes. So are the kids; they can't wait to meet their new baby brother or sister. And _I'm_ looking forward to having another little niece or nephew to spoil." She threw me a mischievous grin. "And what about you?" she asked. "What brings _you_ to Los Angeles?"

"I'm . . . here on business." I didn't feel like getting into all the details.

"Oh? What kind of business?" she inquired.

"Um—well, I guess you could call it book business."

"Oh, are you an author?"

"Well . . . yes," I confessed, smiling modestly.

"Really? Now that _is _a coincidence!" she remarked. "You see, my brother works at Walt Disney Studios, in the animation department; and just a few weeks ago he was telling me that they're having an author fly in this weekend to help work on their next movie . . . and now you're here, too! Isn't that funny!"

I chuckled. "Well, actually—"

"Ah, look; here we are!" she exclaimed. Sure enough, the baggage claim was within sight, and we arrived just as it rumbled to life and started regurgitating suitcases. Having spotted hers amidst the bunch, my companion set her daughter down on the floor and turned to me. "Could you keep an eye on her just long enough for me to grab my bag?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"Thank you." She knelt down beside her little girl. "Mommy's going to get our suitcase, Patty, so you just stay here with this nice lady for a minute, all right?"

The girl—Patty—gave a solemn nod, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and sidled over close to me, but I heard her whimper a little as her mother stepped away. I reached out and patted her back gently, and she snuck a shy sideways glance at me. I smiled, and she turned away; but in the instant before she did so, I thought I glimpsed the tiniest hint of a smile on her face as well. Just then, her mother returned.

"Well, here we are!" She had a suitcase in each hand; one was gray, and the other she held out to me. "I saw this coming along the belt; is it yours?"

My mouth dropped open in surprise. "Why, yes—how did you know?"

"It matches your carry-on," she explained with a grin.

I laughed and reached out to take it. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome! And thank _you _for watching Patty." She took her daughter's hand and scanned the crowd for her brother. "Oh, there's Michael now!" she exclaimed at last. Then she turned back to me. "I have to go; but it was lovely talking to you—and, oh, I just realized I didn't catch your name!"

I smiled. "It's Carrie. Carrie Schultz."

She smiled back. "Nice to meet you, Carrie. I'm Jill." We set down our suitcases to shake hands, and then she picked hers back up. "I hope I'll see you around again sometime. Best of luck with your book thing!"

"Thank you," I replied. "And good luck to you and your family with the new baby."

"Thanks. Well, goodbye!" With yet another wide grin, she turned and started across the airport.

I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully for a moment before calling after her. "Jill!"

She looked back at me.

"Tell your brother and his wife I said hello!" I shouted over the hubbub.

She nodded, smiling. "Will do!" As they walked away, little Patty turned and lifted a chubby hand in farewell. I waved back, and then the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

After they were gone, I stood there by the baggage claim looking around uncertainly. I'd been told I would be picked up at the airport and driven to my hotel, but it wasn't till that moment that I realized I had no idea whom to look for. Just then, however, I happened to notice three men standing patiently in a row amid all the hustle and bustle, each one holding a small, square sign. I approached them with curiosity, peering down to see what their signs said.

The man on my left held a sign with the Warner Brothers logo printed on it, beneath which was written the name _Credle._ The one in the middle bore a sign with the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion, and beneath it, the name _Vogt_. The man on the far right held a sign that sported the smiling Mickey Mouse icon with the words _Walt Disney Presents_, underneath which was my own name—_Carolina Schultz_. All together it read, _Walt Disney presents Carolina Schultz._ I smiled at the pun. "Oh, he does, does he?" I murmured to myself with amusement.

"Schultz? Carolina Schultz?" the man holding the sign addressed me with a bright smile.

"Yes," I affirmed.

"Okay! Well, welcome, Miss Carolina Schultz, welcome to the City of Angels! Let me take your bags. Oh, pardon me—I suppose I should introduce myself first. My name's Ralph; I'll be your driver while you're here in L.A." He was a short, kindly man in his mid-forties, with thinning hair, a round, pleasant face, and large black-rimmed glasses.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ralph," I replied, happily relinquishing my bags to him.

"Pleasure's all mine, Miss Schultz! Car's right out this way, if you'll just follow me."

Together we walked out from the cool, shady airport into the baking heat and blinding sunshine. "The sun came out to say hello just to you," he quipped cheerfully.

"Or to melt me alive," I muttered, already breaking out in sweat. As I stood waiting for Ralph to unlock the car, a pungent odor accosted my nose. "Do you smell that?" I asked after a few moments.

He nodded, smiling. "Jasmine."

"Hmm_._" _More like chlorine and sweat,_ I thought to myself; but, not wanting to be rude, I refrained from saying anything. Meanwhile, Ralph, who was still fiddling with the lock, glanced up apologetically.

"Sorry for the wait, Miss Schultz; don't know why this thing's being so contrary today. Ah, there we go!" he exclaimed triumphantly as the lock finally yielded. He extracted the key and pulled the door open for me.

"Thank you," I said as I climbed in.

With a nod and a smile, Ralph shut the door and hurried around to the back of the car to put my suitcase and carry-on bag in the trunk. Then, having done that, he opened the front door and hopped into the driver's seat. "All right, Miss Schultz; off we go!"

We drove through the streets of Los Angeles, Ralph humming "Blue Suede Shoes" while I sat in the back seat gasping for air. If the weather outside had been baking, then the inside of the car was positively stifling—the air so hot and thick I could barely breathe. Eventually, in hopes of gaining some relief, I pulled out the little pocket notebook I kept in my purse and began vigorously fanning myself. Ralph must have noticed the movement, because he perked up his head and glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "You all right back there, Miss Schultz?"

"Uh, it . . . it is a little hot," I panted.

"Oh—no problemo! No problemo; we got a brand-new air conditioning system, Miss Schultz!" He reached down to press a button. "There we go; that'll fix ya right up."

"Ahhh . . ." I sighed deeply as a wave of cool air coursed over me. "Thank you."

"No problemo," he repeated with a smile. "Boy, it sure is amazing, isn't it, though? A nice little breeze at the push of a button. I tell ya, the things they can put in cars these days, gosh almighty!" And on he went, chatting amiably about cars and weather and Los Angeles and California in general, until at last we arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where I was to stay.

"Well, here we are!" Ralph announced as we pulled up to the entrance. He turned off the engine, hopped out of the car, and came around to open the door for me.

"Thank you," I said as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"My pleasure entirely." He brought out my luggage and set it down beside me. "You good to go from here?"

"I think so."

"Well, all right then!" He clasped his hands together in front of him. "I'll be here at 9:30 tomorrow morning to pick you up."

I smiled. "Excellent. Thank you so much."

He nodded, grinning, and then climbed back into the car and drove off. Meanwhile, I picked up my suitcase and carry-on and headed for the door to the hotel, where a twenty-some-year-old bellboy intercepted me and offered to carry my luggage. I gratefully accepted, and he took my bags and opened the door for me to walk through. Then, after I checked in at the front desk, he escorted me upstairs, unlocked the door to my suite, and let me in.

As the door swung open, I let out a gasp of amazement, for I saw that the couch, chair, coffee table, and just about every other surface in the room were piled with gift baskets and stuffed animals, and two large bunches of balloons had been tied to a display stand by the window. "Whoa," I breathed.

I was still recovering from my shock when I heard a low whistle beside me. "Holy jeepers," the bellboy remarked, then caught himself. "Pardon my slang, ma'am; it's just . . . wow. Looks like someone sure is happy to have you here."

"Indeed," I murmured as I walked in. The bellboy followed me through the doorway, and then he took the lead and I followed him into the adjoining room; but we both stopped short at the sight of a giant plush Mickey Mouse perched on the bed. My jaw dropped in surprise, but immediately I heard Mary Poppins's voice in my head_—"Close your mouth, please, Carolina; we are not a codfish!"—_and I promptly snapped it shut.

Meanwhile, after a brief moment of gaping, the bellboy recovered himself enough to set my bags down on the bed. I expected he would leave after having done so, but instead he began to unzip my suitcase. "Um, excuse me—what are you doing?" I asked.

He looked up at me, his face the very picture of innocent perplexity. "Don't you want me to unpack for you, ma'am?"

A little taken aback by the idea of his handling my clothes, I fixed him with a skeptical stare. "Is this something you do for _all_ the guests?"

"Yes, ma'am—just one of the many services we provide here to enhance the comfort and satisfaction of our visitors." He rattled off this speech as if he'd memorized it straight from the brochure—which, for all I knew, he probably had—and I couldn't help chuckling to myself.

"I see. Well, thank you for the offer, but I'd prefer to unpack my own bags."

He nodded and stepped away from the bed. "Of course, ma'am; as you like. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, I think I can take it from here. Thank you very much for your assistance." I opened my purse and pulled out a tip, but he politely refused it.

"Oh, that's not necessary, ma'am."

"I insist," I countered. "Take it and buy yourself an iced Coke or something."

For a few moments he stared hesitantly at the money in my hand, but at last he reached out and accepted it. "Thank you, ma'am." He made his way to the door and paused just before stepping out into the hallway. "Now, if you need anything, ma'am, just ring the front desk; there's a phone right there on the bedside stand."

"Thank you; I'll keep that in mind."

"You sure there's nothing else I can do for you?"

I was about to say no, there was nothing else; but after a moment's thought, it hit me. "Actually, there _is_ something you can do." I opened my purse again, pulled out the two letters I had written earlier, and handed them to him. "Could you please have these mailed?"

"Certainly, ma'am. Anything else you need?"

I shook my head. "I believe that's all."

"Well, all right then. You have a good day, ma'am, and enjoy your stay here at the Beverly Hills Hotel." With something between a nod and a bow, he exited the room. Once the door closed behind him, I let out a sigh, relieved to be done for a while with all that _ma'am_-ing. Then I proceeded to unpack my suitcase while Mickey Mouse looked on, grinning.

Exhausted as I was from the day's events and . . . well, everything else, it took me the better part of an hour to get everything out of my bags and into its proper place in the room; and by the time I'd finished, I was ready for another nap. However, I remembered that I still had to call my sister to inform her of my safe arrival; so I sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed.

It rang only once before being answered. "Hello; Keatons' residence."

"Hey, Sam."

"Carrie! How are you? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. I just wanted to let you know the trip went well, and I'm at my hotel now."

"Oh, thank heaven!" she exclaimed, then quickly corrected herself. "I-I mean, great. That's wonderful." I could tell she was trying to sound calm and composed, but I still heard in her voice a note of relief, as though a weight had been lifted off her chest. At last she took a deep breath and went on. "Well, how was the plane ride? Anything special?"

"It was good," I replied. "I mean, I slept through most of it; but the seats were comfortable, and no one was smoking."

"Oh, good. And everything else went well? You found your ride easily?"

"Yeah, no trouble there."

"And your room is nice?"

"Yes, it's lovely—and loaded with gifts."

"Gifts?"

"From Disney. Apparently he's eager to make a good impression."

She laughed. "Well, I'm glad everything's working out so far."

"Yeah. How are things back home?"

"Oh, pretty much the same as always . . . though James will tell you I've been a mess since you left. Now that I know you got there safely, maybe I'll finally be able to relax."

I smiled and shook my head. "You're just like Mom."

She laughed again, but this time it was a small, sad laugh. "Yeah." There was a pause, and then her voice came more quietly than before. "She'd be so proud of you, Carrie. She and Dad both."

Immediately a lump sprang up in my throat. I did my best to gulp it down. "You . . . you think so?"

"I know so."

I swallowed a second time. "Thanks," I whispered, not trusting my voice.

After another pause, Sam spoke. "Well, I guess I ought to let you go so you can start getting ready for tomorrow."

I nodded. "Okay."

"Are you all right, Carrie? You sound tired."

"Well, it's been a long day."

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Sam . . ."

"I'm just looking out for you, sis."

"I know, Sam; and I appreciate it, I really do. But the fact is I'm here now, and I'm going to be here for three weeks whether you worry about me or not, so you might as well stop worrying."

She sighed. "I guess you're right."

"I'll be fine, Sam. Really."

"Yeah—yeah, okay. I'll call you tomorrow evening?"

I smiled. "Sounds great."

"All right then. I love you, sis."

"Love you, too."

"'Bye for now."

"'Bye."

I hung up the phone and turned to Mickey. "We can make it through this, can't we?"

He smiled at me.

I gave a satisfied nod. "I knew you'd agree. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Mouse, I need this space to rest." I moved him to the side and stretched out on the bed in hopes of getting some sleep . . . but the instant I lay down, my mind was bombarded by a whirlwind of what-ifs. _What if I hate what they're doing to my story? What if _they_ hate my critiques? What if it all ends up being a disaster?!_

At last, after about twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I sat up and looked at Mickey again. "Well, this isn't working. Any suggestions?"

He just smiled.

I let out a sigh of frustration. "I guess you might as well have your seat back," I said to him as I slid off the bed and meandered into the other room.

With no hope of falling asleep anytime soon and no energy to do anything that involved leaving my hotel room, I decided to have a look at all the gifts that were lying about. Besides the Mickey Mouse balloons, there were stuffed-animal versions of popular animated Disney characters—Mickey, Minnie, Pluto, Donald Duck, Chip 'n' Dale, and Winnie the Pooh—as well as several large baskets laden with treats, including books, candy, a Mickey Mouse ears headband, and—ugh—champagne.

Out of all these presents, one in particular caught by eye. It was another basket; but unlike the others, it was smaller and more elegant, almost boat-like in shape. Its handle sported a large green ribbon, and the basket itself was laden with all kinds of fruit: apples, oranges, bananas, grapefruits, and—

"Pears." With a tremulous hand, I reached down, picked one up, and held it, gently caressing its smooth green skin. "Pears . . ."

"_Pears!" I exclaim. "My favorite! What's the occasion?"_

_Sam smiles. "Oh, nothing in particular. They just happened to be on sale, and I thought I'd pick some up for my baby sister, since she loves them so."_

"_All right, what do I owe you for them?"_

"_Hmm, let me see . . . one hug, please."_

"_Sam, I'm serious!"_

"_So am I! Just because you live here and share expenses doesn't mean I can't buy you a special sister gift every once in a while."_

"_Oh—thank you!" I throw my arms around her, then pull away and pick up one of the golden-green fruits. "May I . . .?"_

_She laughs. "That's what I got 'em for."_

_Without further hesitation, I bite into it. The skin breaks easily, bathing my tongue in sweet, sticky juice. "Mmmm . . ." I chew slowly, savoring the ripe, rich taste and texture, and then at last I swallow and feel the fruit gently sliding down my throat. But suddenly, it catches; and before I know what's happening, the chewed pear flies out of my mouth, followed by a fit of wild coughing. I grasp the table. My whole body tenses. The pain is back, and this time it's worse. _

_Sam pats my back gently as I gasp for air between coughs. "Carrie! Carrie, are you all right?!" I shake my head, unable to respond. Fear courses through me—it's getting harder to breathe. At last, mustering all my strength, I draw a deep breath and expel it in one deep, forceful cough . . . and with that, it's over. _

_I lean wearily against the table. Every breath is shallow and painstaking, every thought a desperate prayer—_Please don't let it start again, please don't let it start again. _My sister's hand still rests on my back, and I see the concern in her eyes as she bends slightly to meet my gaze. "Are you okay?" she asks. I nod slowly. "What happened?" _

_I shake my head again. "I don't know. I guess some pear juice started down the wrong way."_

_She scrutinizes me closely. "Are you in pain?"_

"_Just . . . just a little."_

"_Where does it hurt?"_

"_In here," I admit reluctantly, laying my hand on my chest._

"_Okay . . . how about you sit down?"_

_I nod. "That's probably a good idea." _

_She pulls out a chair, and I lower myself onto it. "Better?" she asks._

"_Yeah." For the first time since the coughing fit, I dare to draw a deep breath. It still hurts, but not as badly now. My exhale is a sigh of relief._

_I sit silently for several moments, with Sam watching me the whole time. At last she lays her hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay now?"_

_I nod again. "I think so."_

"_All right. I need to go do some ironing. I'll be in the laundry room if you need me."_

"_Okay."_

_After she leaves, I look down at the pear, which is still in my hand. Do I dare try again? It _would_ be a shame to let such good fruit go to waste. I raise it to my mouth and take another bite . . . but now I can barely taste it. It's dry and grainy, hard to chew and hard to swallow. I know it's not really the pear; it's me—but I still can't bring myself to eat any more. Instead I just sit there, staring at it. _Everything's fine, _I tell myself. _Everything's fine. _But there's a heaviness in the pit of my stomach._

I shook myself out of my daydream and set the pear back in the basket among the other fruits. No sense dwelling on that now. To distract myself, I sat down on the couch and surveyed the other items on the coffee table. There was a glass dish full of candy, which, unlike the gift baskets, appeared to have been placed there by the hotel staff. I lifted the lid, took out a butterscotch, unwrapped it, and popped it into my mouth. It tasted like sunshine—warm, rich, and golden. As I sucked on it, my eyes landed on a small object between the candy dish and the fruit basket. It was brown and shaped like an elongated box with two protruding black buttons on top. Curious, I picked it up and pressed one of the buttons just to see what would happen.

Suddenly the television across the room crackled and buzzed to life. I jumped in surprise, at a loss to explain what had just happened. Then it dawned on me: the object I held in my hand was a remote control. I'd heard of such things, but I'd never seen one before—they weren't standard issue in Cedar Rapids—and now that I had one in front of me, I was eager to see how it worked. I pressed the other button, and the channel changed from _Lassie_ to _Lucy_. Fascinated, I pressed it again, and an Alka-Seltzer commercial came on.

After several more channel switches, I still hadn't found anything I wanted to watch, and the remote was beginning to lose its novelty. But just when I was almost ready to give up and turn the television off, I pressed the button once more, and who should appear on the screen but the very man I had come all this way to meet. "Ah!" I exclaimed quietly. "There you are!" I leaned back against the couch, watching.

He was standing behind a desk (in his office, I supposed), holding in his hand a small bell, which he shook briskly back and forth—yet there was no sound. I had just started to search for the volume control when he gave a low chuckle. "Don't worry," he said. "There's nothing wrong with your television set. This is a pixie bell. The sound is much too high for human ears.

"Oh! There you are, Tink!" Walt exclaimed as the mischievous little fairy from _Peter Pan_ flew into the room. She hovered for a moment in midair before giving a dainty twirl and flying in a circle around him, showering him with sparkles and causing him to lift off the floor. "He-hey!" he laughed and brushed at his jacket. "Get that stuff off me!" Still chuckling, he addressed the television audience again. "You know, if you're familiar with our story of Peter Pan, you know a little sprinkling of Tinker Bell's fairy dust can make you fly." Having managed to shake off all the dust, he landed back on the ground with a self-satisfied grin. Then he turned to the fairy. "Where you going, Tink? Haven't you forgotten something?"

What it was that Tinker Bell had forgotten I never did find out, for at that very moment my eyelids fell shut and didn't reopen till several hours later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Once again, many thanks to my faithful readers! Whether you comment directly on the story or message me privately, I am always happy to hear from you. :)**

**A/N: For the purposes of this story, I have aged Don DaGradi down somewhat. Whereas in the movie he is in his early fifties, in this story he is somewhere between thirty-five and forty years old. (If you're familiar with **_**The West Wing**_** and/or **_**Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip**_**, picture something like Josh Lyman in the later seasons or Danny Tripp with auburn hair.)**

* * *

Chapter 4

The next morning at 9:27 sharp, I stood waiting outside the front door of the hotel with my purse on my arm, my shoulders squared, and my head held high, ready to take on the world—or so I tried to convince myself.

Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my hands down the front of my royal blue tweed business dress with the sleeves that came halfway down my upper arms. Knowing what I knew about the Walt Disney company and how it was run, I'd packed plenty of semi-casual outfits to wear in the coming days; but today I was most concerned about making a good first impression, and for that the blue tweed dress was perfect. Stylish yet sober, it was my go-to for whenever I needed to look strikingly professional. It came with a matching jacket, which I wore draped over my shoulders lest I overheat with my arms in the sleeves. A large black barrette held my wavy brown hair back in a low ponytail, and a pair of shiny black two-inch pumps completed the look.

With a sigh, I opened my purse and drew out the ladies' wristwatch that I kept in there because I couldn't stand wearing it on my wrist. I checked the time—9:28. Any minute now.

Squinting slightly, I gazed out beyond the overhang. The morning air was refreshingly mild, but the bright sunshine promised another torrid California spring day. I wasn't unaccustomed to heat—our Iowa summer temperatures often reached the mid-eighties—but I had always preferred cooler weather. As a child, I loved to go out on the porch after a summer thunderstorm and smell the freshly-cleared air and feel the breeze on my cheek. I'd look out at the lilac, azalea, and rhododendron bushes that surrounded the house, and I'd smile to myself when I saw the heat-oppressed flowers finally perking back up, daring to breathe once more. The sun beat them down, but the rain brought them back. The rain brought life.

Shaking myself out of contemplation, I checked my watch again. 9:30. And, sure enough, I looked up to see Ralph's car pull in under the overhang, right on the dot. He hopped out, beaming like a ray of sunshine himself. "Good morning, Miss Schultz!"

"Good morning," I replied, smiling back at him. "How are you today?"

"Oh, just right as rain, Miss Schultz. And how 'bout yourself?"

"I'm doing well . . ." . . . _I think._ In all honesty, I had to admit to myself that beneath my formidable exterior, I was, from head to toe, a nervous wreck—but I wasn't about to let it show. I took a deep breath and drew myself up a little straighter.

By now Ralph had come around the back of the car to where I stood. "Yeah, today's the big day, huh? Walt Disney Studios, home of the big man himself—boy, won't that be exciting!"

"That it will be," I agreed.

Still smiling, he opened the door for me to get in. "Hey, the sun came out again," he remarked, gesturing towards the bright, cloudless sky.

Though I'd already seen it, I glanced out once more in the direction he'd indicated. "Indeed," I murmured.

"You like the sunshine?" he asked.

"Yes, I like the sunshine; not so much the heat, though."

"Ah," he nodded understandingly. "Well, shall we, uh . . ."

"Oh—right, of course." I climbed into the car, he eased the door shut, and the next thing I knew, we were humming along the streets of Los Angeles, on our way to Walt Disney Studios.

I spent most of the ride staring out the window with unseeing eyes as my imagination played out everything that could possibly happen in my first moments there, when I would finally arrive and meet the people I'd be working with for the next three weeks. Would they be warm and friendly, or would they be aloof and inflexible? Would they be happy to have me there, or would they be coolly polite at most? Had I made the right decision by coming, or would I end up regretting every minute?

"Well, here we are, Miss Schultz!"

Ralph's chipper voice roused me from my reverie, and I looked up as the car slowed to a halt beside a small security booth. "May I help you?" asked the man inside.

"I've got Miss Carolina Schultz here to see Mr. Disney," Ralph replied.

After a short pause, the guard spoke again. "All right, proceed."

We coasted through the entrance and onto the lot, past a large sign with _Walt Disney Studios _spelled out in silver letters, and around to the sidewalk in front of a tall red-brick building, where three men in business suits stood waiting expectantly. _This must be the welcoming committee,_ I thought as they bent down and waved to me one by one. The apparent head of this trio looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with laughter-filled brown eyes, a wide, friendly smile with a deep dimple in each cheek, and reddish-brown hair swept back in a slightly disheveled fashion. The other two looked almost identical from afar—they shared a similar height and build, as well as the same dark hair styled the same way. As we approached, however, I could see that one of them appeared slightly shorter and more upbeat, while the other, somewhat older-looking one was leaning on a cane.

Once the car came to a stop, the man with the auburn hair stepped forward to open the door for me; but before he could do so, Ralph hurried around the back. "Oh, I can get that, sir!" he called.

The man gave an obliging nod and moved back to where he'd been standing before. "Got it?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Ralph said, pulling the door open.

As I stepped out of the car, the auburn-haired man extended his arms welcomingly. "Good morning, Miss Schultz!"

"Good morning," I replied, "Mr. . . .?"

"DaGradi. Don DaGradi, scriptwriter." Grinning, he held out his hand; and everything I saw in his eyes—the joy, the energy, the infectious enthusiasm—I felt in his handshake.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. DaGradi." I returned his smile.

"Likewise, I'm sure." He then gestured to the other two men. "This is the rest of your team; this is Dick and Bob Sherman, music and lyrics." He turned to address them. "Boys, meet the one and only Miss Carolina Schultz, the creator of our beloved Mary!"

My smile widened. "If she is half as beloved to you as she is to me, then I'm sure we'll get along very well." I proceeded to shake hands with the Shermans. "Now, which one of you is Dick, and which is Bob?"

"I'm Dick," the younger man replied eagerly.

"And I'm Bob." The older one inclined his head slightly.

"We're brothers," Dick added.

"Oh, how nice! So, you're the songwriters?"

"That's right!" he affirmed. "At your service."

"Well, I can't wait to see what you've come up with for this movie."

Bob smiled. "Good, 'cause we can't wait to show you."

"Wonderful." I turned back to Don. "Now, I was told that when I arrived here, I would get to speak with Mr. Disney. Is he ready to see me?"

"Well, we were hoping to give you a little tour of the studio first," Don replied.

"Oh. Does . . . does that involve a lot of walking?"

He shrugged. "A fair amount." Noticing my hesitation, he asked, "Is that a problem?"

"Uh . . . well, I—I mean, I'd love to see the tour, but I'm just really tired from my . . . trip."

"Oh, of course; I hadn't thought of that. Well, we can certainly do it another time."

"Yes, that would be lovely. So . . . in that case, I suppose it's time for me to go meet with Mr. Disney. Would you be so kind as to point me in his direction?"

"Actually," Don said, "it's quite a long walk to where he is. If you'll just come with me, Miss Schultz, I'll show you a better way." He started down the sidewalk, beckoning for me to follow. The Shermans tagged along as well, exchanging a conspiratorial smirk as Don led us around the side of the building to where several small vehicles were parked. He swept his arm grandly toward one of them. "Miss Schultz, allow me to present the Disneymobile, our preferred mode of transportation."

"Oh, I see; a golf cart!"

"Ah, but no ordinary golf cart," Don replied with a wink. "This, as you can see, has Mickey Mouse on the front, which, of course, makes it _The Disneymobile. _You won't find one of these anywhere else, Miss Schultz."

Laughing, I stepped forward and allowed him to help me into the cart—or, rather, "the Disneymobile." Once I was comfortably settled, Don strode around to the other side and sprang into the driver's seat. Since each cart seated only two people, I expected that Dick and Bob would grab another and follow along; but instead they simply climbed up onto the back and held on tightly as we pulled out and drove across the lot.

As we rolled along, Don pointed out some of the various buildings, describing which part of the filmmaking process took place in each. "Way over there on the right is the Animation building, which is where we're headed right now. It's where our artists and animators work, and it's also where Walt's office is located," he explained. "Across the street you have Inking and Painting, where we transfer the artwork onto celluloid sheets and add color so it becomes what you see in the movies. Then we photograph them onto film, over there in the Camera building. And then, of course, there's the post-production process, which takes place in the Cutting building, right next to Camera."

I was so absorbed in what he was saying that I didn't notice the sharp curve in the road until we were whipping around it at full speed. "Whoa!" I exclaimed, grabbing onto the roof of the cart just in time to keep myself from flying out.

Don glanced over at me. "You okay?"

I nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I think so."

He gave an embarrassed smile. "Sorry about that. I should have warned you we'd be going around a turn."

"It's all right; I should have been paying closer attention."

"We forgive you, Don!" Bob proclaimed from the back, and we all laughed.

At last, after several minutes, we came to a stop in front of the Animation building. "And here we are!" Don announced as we climbed out of the cart.

"Wow," I breathed, gazing up at the three-story building.

Dick smiled. "Pretty impressive, huh?"

"Yeah. I can't believe I'm really here. It almost feels like a dream."

"Oh, it's real," Bob assured me.

I shook my head slowly. "It's amazing."

Don grinned. "Well, get used to it, cause this is where you'll be spending most of your time for the next three weeks." He turned to the Shermans. "I'm gonna take her up to Walt's office; you guys coming?"

"No, you go ahead," said Bob. "Dick and I will park the cart and then head upstairs to get things ready. We'll see you guys in the rehearsal room."

"All right then. Miss Schultz, right this way."

Together Don and I strode up the walkway and mounted the wide concrete steps to the main entrance, where he reached out to pull the door open. "After you," he said.

"Thank you," I replied; and we walked in.

The temperature inside was pleasant, but warm enough that I decided to shed my jacket, which was still resting on my shoulders. "I can take that for you if you'd like," Don offered once I'd removed it.

"Thank you; that would be nice." I held it out to him, and he took it and folded it over his arm.

_They really are going all-out, _I mused silently as we climbed the stairs to the third floor. The men were very friendly and courteous, to be sure; but I couldn't decide whether to feel pleased or suspicious about it. This _was_ business, after all. Fun, hopefully, but still business. Perhaps they were just trying to win me over. And yet, it had to be more than just that, for there was a sincerity in their manner that put me instantly at ease.

At last we reached the third floor and headed down a wide hallway toward a pair of glass doors, through which I could discern what appeared to be a small waiting area. When we arrived, Don opened the door for me once again, and I walked through.

The waiting area consisted of a brown curved sofa and two end tables lined up against the far wall, with a woman in a light blue dress sitting behind a desk near the doors. She had short, dark hair and a round, pleasant face with bright red lips, and she looked to be about my age. As Don and I entered, she stepped out to greet us with a wide smile. "Good morning!"

"Good morning, Dolly," Don replied amiably. "Miss Schultz, this is Dolly, our receptionist. Dolly, the famous Carolina Schultz."

"It's such an honor to have you here," she gushed.

"Thank you; I'm honored to be here," I said, smiling at her bubbly welcome. "Could you please let Mr. Disney know I've arrived?"

"Absolutely! Please have a seat; he'll be with you in just a minute."

"Thank you."

Once we were seated on the sofa, Don leaned over and spoke quietly to me. "A word of advice, Miss Schultz, if I may."

"Of course. Have . . . have I done something wrong?"

"No, no—nothing like that. It's just that he can't stand being called 'Mr. Disney'; we're all on a first-name basis here."

"Oh, I see. So I should call him Walt?"

"He would prefer that, yes."

"All right." I hesitated. "Does . . . does that go for you guys, too?"

"Well, I can't speak for the Shermans, but I know I'd rather be called Don than Walt."

I blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry; I should have phrased that differently. What I meant was, do you prefer to be called by your first names?"

He looked at me then, and I saw his eyes were twinkling. "I know what you meant, Miss Schultz; I was just being funny. Or at least attempting to be," he said with a wry grin. "But in answer to your question, yes, we all go by our first names."

I nodded. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know . . . Don."

He smiled. "And what do people call you? Carolina?"

"Well, that's the name on my books, but I seldom use it anywhere else. I mostly go by Carrie. You guys can call me that, if you want."

"Carrie . . . I like that," he remarked to himself. Then, turning to me—"All right then, Carrie it is." I smiled and blushed a little.

At that point, our conversation lapsed. Don stared off into the distance, bouncing his leg slightly and tapping his fingers on his knee. Meanwhile, as the seconds stretched into minutes, I grew more and more antsy at the thought of meeting Walt Disney—the king of animated motion pictures himself! I stretched my arms out in front of me, clenching and unclenching my hands repeatedly in a vain attempt to alleviate my jitters. Don noticed this and looked over at me with a knowing smile. "You nervous?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I'm only about to meet _the_ Walt Disney; why on earth would I be nervous?" I gave a half-smile to let him know my sarcasm was meant in fun.

He chuckled. "It's all right. He has that effect on everyone. But trust me—once you meet him, you'll see there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Are you absolutely sure I should call him Walt?" I asked. "I mean, it just seems so informal, and I'd really hate to appear rude. But you did say he likes everyone to call him that?"

"He does indeed. If you don't believe me, ask him yourself," Don replied good-naturedly. Then, all of a sudden, his head perked up, and his brow furrowed slightly. "Hold on . . . I think I just heard the door to his office."

My eyes widened, my heart palpitated, and my hands clasped tightly together. _Oh my gosh, this is actually happening._Down the hall, I heard a deep cough; and two seconds later, _he_—Walt Disney—emerged from around the corner, threw open his arms, and strode across the room toward us, beaming, as we stood up. "Well," he boomed, "here you are, at last! Oh, my dear gal"—he seized my hand in both of his and shook it vigorously—"you can't imagine how excited I am to finally meet you!"

It took me several seconds to regain my power of speech. "Oh! Well, it's an honor, Mr. Disney." My face reddened as I realized my mistake and quickly corrected myself. "Oh—I mean Walt. Don said I ought to call you Walt." I gave him a questioning look.

"That's absolutely correct," Walt replied warmly. "'Mr. Disney' was my old man, and I like to keep it that way. But enough about me—what do you think of the studio? You like what you've seen? I trust the boys have already given you the tour."

"Actually, they were kind enough to give me a rain check. I was a little too tired to handle much walking. But I do love everything I've seen so far—especially the Disneymobile." I threw a smile at Don, who had already been grinning widely from the moment Walt entered the room.

Walt raised an eyebrow, glancing curiously in Don's direction. "The Disneymobile?"

"Golf cart," Don explained.

"Ah." Walt chuckled. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. And I guarantee there's lots more to love around here . . . but I won't say anything more about that." He raised his eyebrows mysteriously. "You'll just have to stick around and see the magic for yourself. Come on, right this way." With that, he turned and strode back the hall.

I glanced hesitantly at Don, who gave a slight nod in the direction Walt was headed. "Go on. I'll be waiting out here when you're done. And, Carrie?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't be nervous." He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I nodded, smiling my thanks, and hurried after Walt.

I caught up to him where he was standing near another desk with another woman sitting behind it—one who appeared to be in her mid-forties, with dark red hair and a calm, pleasant face with laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Walt looked up from his conversation with her just as I rounded the corner. "Oh, there you are!" he exclaimed. "I was starting to worry I'd lost you." Before I could reply, he gestured to the woman at the desk, who had stood up when I appeared. "Carolina, this is my secretary, Tommie Blount. Tommie, meet the one and only Carolina Schultz."

"It's so nice to meet you," she said warmly, offering her hand.

"Nice to meet you, too," I replied, shaking hands with her. "And, please, call me Carrie." I sent a brief glance in Walt's direction. "Everyone does."

"Well, then, _Carrie_," Walt said, "won't you join me in my office?"

"Uh—certainly." I looked over my shoulder to exchange another smile with Tommie as I followed Walt into the adjoining room.

When I walked through the doorway, I halted in amazement. Never before had I seen an office like his—so spacious, yet so homey. The wall directly to my right was lined with bookcases that held not only books, but also numerous knickknacks—many of which were figurines of characters from his movies. In front of the bookcases sat a three-seat couch and a glass-top coffee table. Two large windows flooded the room with light; on their sills rested more figurines. A large globe in a wooden stand stood near one of the windows, and two plush off-white chairs sat facing each other at opposite ends of the room.

In the corner across the room was Walt's desk, which he moved to stand behind. "Come, have a seat!" he called, indicating one of two chairs that sat across from him. As I walked over, I took note of the various paraphernalia that cluttered his desk: two small lamps, a few books, a model airplane, a pencil holder full of pens and pencils, and the pixie bell I'd seen him ringing on television the day before. In the very center, on the side closest to me, sat a small wooden plaque that read, _We can make them live._ And on the wall behind the desk were several shelves lined with even more figurines.

"You like all the trinkets?" Walt asked, noticing my curious interest.

"Yes, they're fascinating!" I said as I sat down.

His eyes twinkled. "Good, good! Tommie keeps telling me I should clean out my office and get rid of all this 'junk,' as she calls it. And you know what I always tell her?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "I say, 'Tommie, these little trinkets represent the things that bring joy to a child's heart. And as long as that's true, there's no better place to keep them than right here in my office, where I can see them every day and be reminded of what we're all about here: bringing joy to the hearts of children.'" He chuckled. "Of course, she thinks that's just a fancy excuse for not wanting to clean out my office; but there is truth to it, Carrie. That is what this company is all about, is bringing joy to the hearts of children—and adults, too, for that matter."

He paused thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and pointed to one of several framed pictures on the wall behind him—a pencil sketch of a young woman. "You know, Diane here, my oldest daughter—oh!" he interrupted himself. "Can I get you something to drink? A coffee, perhaps?"

"That would be very nice, thank you."

He nodded and went on. "Anyway, Diane has two little daughters of her own: Joanna and Tamara—but of course, we call them Joey and Tammy. And one time, when I came to visit them, I found them sitting on the couch. Joey was reading to Tammy, and those girls, they were just giggling their little socks off." He picked up his phone to use the intercom. "Ah, Tommie? A hot coffee for Carrie and me."

I heard her voice through the door. "Right away, Walt."

"Ah, you're a doll. She is, she's a doll," he said as he hung up the phone and turned back to me. "And anyways," he continued, "I asked them, I said, 'Girls, what's so funny?' And Joanna says to me, 'Why, Grampy, Mary Poppins!'" He laughed, and I couldn't help laughing with him.

"Well, at that point, I didn't even know what a Mary Poppins was," he admitted. "But then she gave me one of your books; and oh, by gosh, my imagination caught on fire—absolutely on fire! And now, here we are!"

I nodded. "Indeed. I'm so happy to be here. I can't wait to start working on the movie."

"Oh, I feel the same way; and so does my team. You know, we're doing a wonderful thing here. Our motion picture is not just going to make my grandkids happy; it's going to make all kids happy, adults too. Because my guys are going to do things with it that are revolutionary, Carolina, revolutionary! Your Mary Poppins is going to literally fly off the pages of your books! Oh, thank you, Tommie," he said as Tommie came in with our coffee. "This magical woman who has only lived inside your head, well, you are going to be able to meet her, speak to her, and you're gonna hear her sing."

"Yes, I'm very excited!" I assured him.

"Do you take cream in your coffee?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Sugar?"

"Please."

He poured in the cream and sugar, stirring them around as he spoke. "You know, ever since this company was born, we've brought dozens of films to the big screen—many of which are based off books just like yours. And in all these years, we haven't lost an author yet." He handed me my coffee cup. "I have high hopes for what we're going to accomplish here together, Carrie, and you can rest assured we'll do our very best to make this an experience you won't regret."

"Mr. Disney—" I caught myself. "I'm sorry—Walt . . . forgive me for being so blunt, but it sounds like you're trying to convince me of something. Are you worried I might be having second thoughts?"

He took a slow, thoughtful sip of coffee. "Well . . . I suppose I still don't quite understand why you turned us down the first time."

After a long pause, I spoke. "It wasn't that I was uninterested. I do like the idea of this project, and I'm glad it ended up working out." I sighed deeply. "The reason I said no initially . . . well, it was really just the timing of it all. Your offer just happened to come right after I'd found out about . . . well . . . I believe my agent told you? About my . . ."

"Yes . . . yes, she told me."

"Right. Anyway, I was going through so much; I just couldn't handle a movie rights deal on top of everything else. But . . . by the second time you approached me, things had changed; and I wanted to accept this opportunity before . . . before it was too late."

"I see," he said quietly. "And you wanted to come here and work on it with us because . . ."

I took a deep breath. "Well, you see, Mary Poppins and the Bankses—they're like family to me. I want to make sure that they're portrayed as I know them, and that the life they live on screen is one they'd be proud of."

He nodded. "Well, we shall do our very best. And, of course, nothing happens without your say-so." He opened his desk drawer and brought out a paper. "It's all here in the rights agreement that was approved by your agent," he said, holding it out to me.

I took it from him and glanced over it. "A live-action film? No animation?"

"Live-action. Here's a pen."

I looked back up at him. "Walt, I know my agent has already approved this, but I do make it my personal practice not to sign any contract without first reading it for myself. So if you don't mind, I'd like to take this with me tonight and bring it back tomorrow morning. I hope that won't cause any inconvenience."

"Certainly not," he replied with a smile. "You're a wise young woman."

I smiled back at him, then folded the contract and tucked it in my purse.

After a moment's pause, Walt sat down in his chair and folded his hands on his desk. "Well, now that we have all the business taken care of . . . how _are_ you feeling, Carrie?"

"I'm well, thank you," I replied.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're well."

I shrugged. "As well as can be expected." After a pause, I asked, "You . . . you haven't told the others?"

He shook his head. "I haven't said a word."

"Good."

He held my gaze with a seriousness that belied his trademark happy-go-lucky persona. "You're sure you want to do it this way?"

"Yes," I replied with a decisive nod. "Yes, I'm sure. I've given this a lot of thought, and I just think it'll be much easier if they don't know."

"Very well." His eyes probed mine. "And you're sure you feel up to this?"

I shrugged again, smiling. "Well, I'm here now, aren't I?"

He nodded and chuckled slightly. "Indeed you are."

A few moments passed in which neither of us said anything; then he cleared his throat and glanced at the clock. "Well, we can't keep the guys waiting too long."

"No, of course not," I agreed. He rose from his chair, and I followed suit. Together we walked toward the door.

"Now, the boys and Dolly should get you all taken care of; but if at any time you need anything, you know where to find me," he said.

"I'll remember that." Having reached the door, I turned to face him. "Thank you for your time, Walt. It was an honor to finally meet you."

"The honor is all mine, Carrie," he replied with a warm smile.

I smiled back, then took a deep breath. "Well then . . . shall we begin?"

He nodded and shook my hand. "Let's make something wonderful."

Heart racing, I returned his nod and strode out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**A special thank-you to my mom, who, after reading chapters 3 and 4, suggested a few minor additions and changes in wording. And, as always, thank you to my readers! I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

* * *

Chapter 5

As I emerged from Walt's office, Tommie looked up and smiled. "Well, hello again! Did you have a nice chat? I hope Walt didn't talk your ears off."

I smiled back. "It went very well, thank you."

"Good. Oh, and I apologize for the state of Walt's office. I keep telling him to clean it out, but he's come up with this elaborate excuse for why he has to have all that clutter on display." She shook her head. "Honestly, that man."

I laughed. "He certainly is a force of nature."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'll say." I laughed again, and she smiled. "Anyway, I believe Don's out there waiting for you."

"Thanks; I'll go meet him."

"All right then. You have a nice day, Carrie."

"You too."

Sure enough, I returned to the reception room to find Don sitting on the couch, waiting for me as promised. When he saw me coming, he immediately sprang to his feet. "Hey! How'd it go?"

"It went well," I replied. "You were right; Walt's not nearly as intimidating once you meet him."

He grinned. "Good. Well, in that case, let's get to work!"

As we passed the reception desk, Dolly looked up from the pile of papers she was sifting through. "Are you guys headed off now?"

"Yeah, we're going over to the rehearsal room," Don said.

"All right. I'll be there in a few minutes with refreshments." She turned to me. "It was nice to meet you, Carrie! I hope you enjoy your time here."

"Thank you; I'm sure I will," I replied with a smile. Then Don opened the door for me once again, and I exited the reception room with him close behind.

We headed down the hall together—me with my purse clutched tightly in my hands, Don with my jacket over one arm and the other swinging at his side. I found myself watching him out of the corner of my eye, noticing the relaxed, easy grace with which he carried himself. His stride was brisk and fluid, with just a hint of swagger—not so much as to seem arrogant, but enough to lend him an air of appealing self-assurance. He whistled a little as we walked, and I smiled to myself when I recognized the tune as "Heigh-Ho" from _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves._ At last, after several seconds, he spoke.

"Now, most days, Dick and Bob and I will probably be here working by the time you arrive, so you'll have to find your own way to the rehearsal room. It's not that hard, though—just come in the front door and up the stairs like we did earlier, and then down this hall and make a left. And of course, if you have any trouble, just ask one of the other employees; they'll be happy to help."

"Thank you," I replied.

"No problem." He tucked his free hand casually into his pocket. "So, you ever been to Los Angeles before?"

"No; actually, this is the first time I've been in California at all."

"Ah. And how do you like it?"

"It's lovely . . . although quite a bit warmer than I'm used to."

He laughed. "Well, don't worry—what we lack in cool weather, we make up for in air conditioning."

I smiled. "That's a relief."

We strode along in silence for another few moments before Don resumed the conversation. "So, your first time in L.A.; think you'll do any sightseeing while you're here?"

I shrugged. "We'll see. I mean, first things first—we have a movie to make."

"Well, we're off work on the weekends. Maybe then you'll get to check out the city some."

"Maybe."

By that time, we had reached a place where the main hallway branched off to the left. "This is where you turn," Don said, pointing. We rounded the corner and headed down a smaller corridor, at the end of which was a pair of glass doors with _REHEARSAL ROOM_ printed on them. On the handle of one door hung a sign that read, "Please be quiet. Rehearsal in progress"—with, of course, a picture of Mickey Mouse, smiling and waving, right in the middle. When we arrived at the end of the hall, Don reached out to grab the handle of one of the doors. "And this," he said, grinning, "is where the magic happens." He swung open the door and gestured for me to walk through.

Together we entered a large, airy room with a long table in the center, where the Sherman brothers were seated. They must have been waiting for us to arrive, because when we entered, they looked up and promptly rose from their chairs. "She's back!" Bob exclaimed with a smile.

"Nice to know _I've_ been missed," Don remarked, but there was laughter in his voice.

"So, how'd the meeting with Walt go?" Dick inquired.

"Very well; thank you for asking," I replied, unsure whether I ought to remain standing or take a seat at the table. Just as I was about to ask, Don spoke again.

"You guys got everything set up?"

"Yeah, just about," Bob replied, "except we couldn't find the pencils. Did you move them?"

Don's brow furrowed slightly. "No, they should be on the desk."

While they continued their discussion, I lingered a few steps away, taking in my surroundings. Sunlight streamed through the windows, which, thanks to the mild morning weather, had been thrown open to welcome the fresh breeze that was now gently fluttering the blinds. In one corner of the room stood a console piano; in another corner, a snare drum; and on the wall between them, a three-seat couch with a wooden coffee table. The other three walls were lined with music-related paraphernalia, as well as a desk, two small corner tables, and several large rolling cork boards with various pencil sketches—some in black and white, others in color—thumbtacked onto them.

"Carrie?"

I returned my attention to the three men. "Yes?"

Don gestured to himself and the Sherman brothers. "We were thinking we'd start by reading through the script together. It's not quite finished yet, but it should give you some idea of where we're at right now and what we still have to work on."

I nodded. "All right, that sounds good."

He gave a nod of satisfaction. "Great. In that case . . ." he pulled out a chair and thumped the back of it lightly, ". . . would you care to have a seat?"

"Yes, that'd be wonderful." I came over, sat down, and allowed him to slide me towards the table. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he replied with a smile. This trio, it seemed, were always smiling—wide, merry, heartfelt grins that I found irresistibly contagious.

As the men seated themselves around the table, the door opened and Dolly entered the room, pushing a cart laden with sweet treats. "Here comes the food!" she announced as she parked the cart beside the table.

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "What is all this?"

Don grinned. "That, my dear Carrie, is what keeps us alive—especially on days like this, when we have a whole script to get through."

"Mmm!" Dick licked his lips hungrily. "What's on the menu today, Dolly?"

She grinned. "Well, for starters, I have donuts . . ."

"Ooh!" the three men chorused.

". . . and chocolate chip cookies . . ."

"Yum!"

". . . and, last but not least, the grand finale—ta-da!" Dolly proudly held up a large round platter with different-colored Jell-O squares arranged in piles around the rim—and in the center, a single block of red Jell-O shaped like Mickey Mouse's head, with candy decorations for a face.

"Oh, how charming!" I exclaimed with delight. "He looks almost too good to eat! _Almost_."

"You've really outdone yourself this time, Dolly," Dick remarked with a grin.

Dolly placed the Jell-O platter on the table ceremoniously, then clasped her hands and looked around at the four of us. "Well, then, is there anything else I can get you?"

Don shook his head. "I think we're all set. Thank you, Dolly!"

"Yes, thank you!" Dick, Bob, and I echoed.

"You're quite welcome!" She gave a gratified nod. "See you all later, then! Have fun!" And with that, she exited the room, pushing the cart along in front of her.

After she left, Don clapped his hands together eagerly. "All right, now does everyone have a pencil and a copy of the script?"

Dick glanced around the table. "Looks like it."

"Great, then let's get started." We all opened our scripts to the first page. Don reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a pair of black-rimmed glasses, and slid them onto his face. "Ready?" he asked. The rest of us nodded and looked down at our scripts. Don cleared his throat slightly and glanced in my direction, which I took to mean that I should begin reading.

"'Scene one, ext.'"_ 'Ext.'? What on earth does that mean? _I wondered. _Extreme? Extra? _Neither made sense. _Extended, perhaps? _

Just then, I noticed that Don was reading the rest of the scene heading. My face reddened as I realized my mistake—he hadn't meant for me to read the script; he'd cleared his throat because _he_ was preparing to read it. Despite my embarrassment, I raised a hand to stop him. "Excuse me—I'm sorry, what is 'ext.'?"

"Oh, exterior," he explained. "It means the scene takes place outside."

"Oh, I see. Thank you."

I returned my gaze to the script and waited for him to resume. But instead he said, "I'm sorry, I didn't ask—did you want to do the reading?"

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "I mean, of course, if you want me to, I wouldn't mind; but I didn't mean to read over you, if that's what you're saying."

Bob smiled reassuringly. "Carrie, relax; there's no harm done."

"Of course not," Don agreed. "Here, why don't you read the scene heading, and then we'll all take turns from there?"

"All right." I cleared my throat. "'Scene one, exterior, 17 Cherry Tree Lane, London, day. Bert, a one-man band, plays to a small gathering outside the gates to the park. Bert says . . .'" I looked around the table. "Um, who's reading for Bert?"

"I can be Bert," Don offered. He turned to the other two men. "Guys, shall we give it a whirl?" Without further explanation, they all jumped up from their seats and headed to the other side of the room.

"Wait—what's happening?" I asked, completely bewildered. As if in answer to my question, the Sherman brothers positioned themselves at the piano, and Dick began pounding out a tune.

"'All right, ladies 'n' gents!'" Don announced, reading from the script in a Cockney accent. "'Comical poems suitable for the occasion, extemporized and thought up before your very eyes. All right . . . here we go!'" On his cue, Dick and Bob began to sing:

"_Room here for everyone,_

_Gather around!_

_The constable's responstable—_

_Now how does that sound?" _

Meanwhile, Don continued his Bert act; and I couldn't help giggling at the way he threw himself into it with large gestures, exaggerated facial expressions, and a droll, comical air. He walked up to an imaginary lady and pretended to tip his hat as the brothers sang:

"'_Ello, Miss Lark; _

_I've got one for you!"_

Dick stopped playing for a moment so that the rhyme could be spoken without music. "Miss Lark . . . likes to walk . . . in the park . . . with Andrew!"

A quick glance at the script informed me that Andrew was Miss Lark's Yorkie, which fact was confirmed when Don bent down to pet an invisible dog. "Hello, Andrew!" he greeted it, then stood back up for the next verse:

"_Ah, Mrs. Cory, _

_A story for you:_

_Your daughters was shorter than you,_

_But they grew!"_

I smiled involuntarily as all three men widened their eyes in amazement at the prodigious growth of Mrs. Cory's daughters.

Then Dick began to play again; but this time the music changed from jaunty and playful to quiet and mysterious. Don looked down at the script and read, "'A light wind arises, and Bert's attention is suddenly drawn away. The onlookers glance at each other in confusion as he gazes up at the sky, as if he knows a secret.'" With that, Dick and Bob sang:

"_Dear Miss Persimmon . . . _

_Wind's in the east, _

_Mist comin' in, _

_Like somethin' is brewin',_

_About to begin. _

_Can't put me finger_

_On what lies in store, _

_But I feel what's to 'appen_

_All 'appened before."_

With a final flourish from Dick, the song ended, and the trio looked over at me expectantly. Laughing, I gave them a round of ecstatic applause.

"I love it!" I exclaimed. "Are they all like this?"

"Well, we do have a few slower ones in mind; but basically, yeah, that's the idea," Bob replied.

"Well, I can't wait to hear the rest of them. Keep up the good work." I gave a nod of admiration. Beaming, the three men returned to their seats at the table.

"All right," Don said, "shall we continue?"

xxxxx

We did, indeed, read through the entire script that day. We also went through the whole plate of donuts, half the cookies, and all but a few squares of Jell-O; so when it came time for lunch, we were too full to even think about eating anything more. However, Bob was starting to shift uncomfortably in his seat; and Dick, noticing this, suggested we take a break. Everyone readily agreed.

The four of us stood up to stretch our legs, and I noticed Bob wincing slightly as he rose from his chair. He caught his breath in a soft, pained gasp, then quickly regained his composure, exhaling slowly. Dick saw this as well and cleared his throat. "Say, Bob, why don't we head over to our office for a bit? I have an idea for one of the songs that I want to run by you, but, ah, I don't want to spoil the surprise for Carrie here."

Bob stared at his brother for a few seconds. Dick stared back, and I sensed an unspoken conversation pass between them. At last, Bob nodded. "All right. As long as that's okay with you guys?" He glanced questioningly at Don and me.

"No problem; take as much time as you need," Don said. "We're more than halfway through the script already, so we'll just finish reading it when you guys get back."

With a grateful nod, Bob took his cane and limped to the door with Dick following close behind. Don and I watched them go; and as soon as the door closed behind them, I turned to him. "Don, may I ask a question?"

He nodded. "Yeah, of course. What is it?"

We sat back down in our chairs, and I took a deep breath before speaking again. "I don't mean to be rude, but I was just wondering . . . what's wrong with Bob's leg?"

"He got shot," Don replied solemnly.

"Oh . . . I'm sorry," I said quietly. "How did it happen?"

"Combat wound. He was a soldier in World War II."

"World War II?" I asked incredulously. "That's surprising; he doesn't seem old enough to have been in the army back then."

"He was very young when he joined—seventeen, if I remember correctly," Don explained.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Noticing the concern on my face, he continued. "We don't talk about it much around here. Bob doesn't like to be pitied."

I smiled wryly. "I can relate to that."

Don sighed. "Most of us here agree that Bob's a little too tough for his own good. Fortunately, Dick knows his brother's limits, and he knows how to persuade Bob to take a break when he needs it . . . like you saw just now."

"It was very artfully done," I agreed. "Reminds me of my sister."

Don chuckled, but then a look of discomfort crossed his face, and he tugged at his collar slightly. "Hey, Carrie, does it seem hot in here to you?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, I hadn't noticed; but now that you mention it, yes, it is a little warm."

Don glanced at the windows, which were still open. "Must be heating up outside. I'd better shut the windows." After doing so, he returned to the table, fanning himself with one hand. He pulled out his chair to sit down, but hesitated, looking up at me with a question in his eyes. "Would you be offended if I . . ." he gestured to his suit jacket.

"Oh—no, of course not!" I exclaimed. "Please, I wouldn't want you to overheat."

"Thank you." With deft fingers, he unbuttoned his jacket, slipped it off, and hung it on the back of his chair. He then proceeded to roll up his sleeves and loosen his necktie slightly, and suddenly I felt rather overheated myself.

At last Don sat down again. This time, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head, a friendly smile curving his lips. "So . . . tell me about yourself."

"Uh . . ." I faltered, "well, what do you want to know?"

He shrugged. "I dunno; anything. What do you do when you're not writing?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, I mostly spend time with my sister—help her around the house and stuff. And I play piano," I added, casting a longing glance at the one in the corner.

Don raised his eyebrows. "Really? Are you good at it?"

"People say I am," I replied modestly.

"Well then, you ought to try that one out sometime." He nodded towards the very instrument I'd been gazing at a second ago.

"Really?" I asked incredulously. "You don't think the Shermans would mind?"

He grinned. "I guarantee they wouldn't. In fact, I'm sure they'd love to hear you play." He brought one hand out from behind his head to scratch the side of his nose. "So, you have a sister. Any other family?"

"Uh, no . . . not anymore. Our parents died several years ago."

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Yeah." I stared down at the table. "Our mom passed away from pneumonia, and Dad . . . well, six months later, we lost him too. The doctor said it was the grief that did it."

Don was silent for a few seconds; then he spoke. "Wow, that . . . that must have been hard."

"Yeah, it was." I shook my head and looked back up at him, trying to regain my casual, upbeat tone. "So now it's just me and my sister, Samantha . . . and her husband, James. The two of them rented a place for a while after they got married, and I stayed at home with our parents . . . but then once Dad died, Sam and I talked it over and decided there wasn't much point in my having that big house all to myself. So in the end, Sam and James moved in, and we've all been living together ever since."

"And how does that work out for you?" he inquired.

"Pretty well, for the most part," I replied. "The house itself is basically divided in two. They live in the main portion, which has the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, plus two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. And then right inside the front entrance, there's this door; and when you open it, you'll find a separate flight of stairs that leads to a bedroom, a bathroom, and an office, all partitioned off from the rest of the house. That's where I work and sleep."

Don nodded, then looked off to the side, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he looked back at me. "So, you're not married?"

I blushed. "No. I mean—that's correct; I'm not married."

An expression I couldn't quite name flickered across his face for the briefest of moments before he looked downward and began fiddling with a pen. "Interesting," he murmured. "Just never found the right one?"

I sighed. "More like I never really got around to looking for the right one. Just . . . too much going on, I suppose."

He nodded. "I know what you mean."

"What about you?" I asked. "Are you married? Or . . . anything?" Why our conversation had steered in this direction, I wasn't sure; but since it had, I figured I might as well ask. Friendly curiosity and the like.

"Uh, no . . . no, I'm not."

"Hmm," I said as my stomach did a little flip-flop. I swallowed. "And the Sherman brothers?"

He nodded, grinning. "They're both married, with kids. You should meet their families sometime; they're really great."

I smiled. "I'll bet."

Another pause ensued; then he spoke again. "So, are you enjoying your first day here so far?"

"Yes, very much," I replied, nodding eagerly.

He smiled. "Good. I know it's probably a little overwhelming to read through the entire script first thing, but I promise what comes next will be a lot more fun."

"Oh, I'm already having fun!" I exclaimed. "Just being here is a dream come true for me!" Don's eyes sparkled with mirth, which led me to clear my throat and lower my gaze self-consciously. "I know that sounds corny. It's probably what you guys hear from every starry-eyed newcomer, right?"

He shook his head. "It's not corny at all. Being here _is _a dream come true—for all of us. And it doesn't go away."

I gave him a grateful smile. "So . . . tell me more about Mr. Disney."

"Ah-ah! 'Walt,' remember?" he corrected me gently.

"Right—sorry. I'm still getting used to that."

He chuckled again. "That's okay. What do you want to know about him?"

"Well . . . what is he really like? I mean, as a boss? What's it like to work for him?"

Don smiled. "Wonderful, for the most part. Walt's kind of like an uncle to us all. He wants us to enjoy what we do here. He encourages creativity, he values our ideas, and he also cares about what goes on in our personal lives."

"So, essentially, he's the perfect boss," I said.

Don raised an eyebrow wryly. "Well . . . nobody's perfect."

"Oh?"

He sighed. "Walt is a . . . tough critic. Which is good, in a way, because that's the type of person it takes to run a moviemaking business. But it's always hard when we pour ourselves into something only to have him take one look at it and say it's not good enough. And then it's back to the drawing board to work our, uh . . ."

"Rear ends off?" I supplied.

He laughed. "Yeah, pretty much. Don't get me wrong; he really is a great guy . . . but there are some days when he'll come and talk to you about whatever project you're working on, and then he'll leave the room and you'll wonder if you just had a conversation with Attila the Hun."

"Oh . . . I see."

We both fell silent for a few seconds; then I spoke. "You know, I should probably warn you—I tend to be somewhat of a tough critic myself."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You? Really?"

I laughed. "You don't believe me?"

"Well, it's just . . . you don't really seem like the type."

"Oh, I can be a lot feistier than anyone would think." I grinned mischievously, eliciting yet another laugh from him. "But," I continued, "in all seriousness, I know you guys have been working hard on this, so I'll try to keep my criticisms to a minimum."

"What? No, don't do that."

I stared at him, surprised. "Why not?"

"Well, the whole reason you're here is to give us your feedback on this project—so if you don't let us know what you're thinking, that pretty much defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "You really want to know _everything _I'm thinking?"

"Well . . . yeah. I mean, that is why we're doing this."

I held his gaze for a few seconds, then shrugged my shoulders with mock nonchalance. "All right. Let's see . . . first of all, the Banks's address should be referred to as '_Number_ 17 Cherry Tree Lane,' not just '17.' The tape measure Mary Poppins uses to measure the children should be a roll tape, not a ruler. The comment Ellen makes about the family needing a zookeeper—I think '_ruddy_ zookeeper' would be better. 'Bloomin' zookeeper' sounds awkward with the two _oo_'s. And, frankly, I think the whole exchange between the market sellers and the nannies should be cut; it takes up several minutes' worth of screen time without really adding anything to the story." I smirked a little when I saw that Don's eyes had widened and his mouth had dropped open slightly. "I told you I'm a tough critic."

He blinked. "Wow . . . yeah. You weren't kidding."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

He looked off to the side, thinking. Then, after several moments, he met my gaze again. "No," he said. "I still think you should give us whatever suggestions you have. But you should also understand that we might not be able to carry out every single one."

I nodded. "I understand that."

"All right, then we have a deal."

After that, we fell into silence again. I gazed absentmindedly through the glass doors and down the hallway until I felt Don's eyes on me. I turned my head and, sure enough, caught him watching me, sizing me up. "What are you thinking?" I asked.

He stared at me for another second before answering. "I don't know, it's just . . . somehow I get the feeling you're a little more than what we bargained for."

"Is that bad?"

His lips curved upwards slightly, just enough for his dimples to show. "No," he replied. "No, I think it's exactly what we need."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

But just as he was about to answer, the door opened, and we looked up to see Dick and Bob enter the room. "We're back!" Dick announced.

"Great!" Don sat up a little straighter, ready to get back to business; and, reluctantly, I followed suit, wishing we'd had a few more minutes so I could have heard what he was going to say.

"I see you guys closed the windows," Dick remarked. "Good call. Dolly said the temperature outside is getting up into the eighties."

As he passed by Don's chair, Bob leaned over and murmured, "Sorry about that."

Don shook his head. "Not a problem."

Once the brothers took their seats, Don cleared his throat. "Well, shall we continue?" The other three of us nodded. "Who's reading?" he asked.

"I think it was my turn," Dick replied. He glanced at each of us. "Everyone ready?"

"Mm-hmm," we assented.

"All right then, let's see . . . ah, here we are. 'Scene 9—The Streets of London . . .'"

As Dick read, I found my thoughts drifting back to the conversation I'd had with Don while the Shermans were out of the room. Eventually, without really knowing why I did so, I glanced up from my script to look at him. Though his eyes were on the script, it seemed that his mind was elsewhere; then, suddenly, he looked up at me. Our eyes met for but a moment before we returned them to our scripts—yet in that one moment, something passed between us, leaving the air crackling and my heart racing as I began to suspect that I, too, had gotten more than what I'd bargained for.


	6. Chapter 6

**My motivation to update finally returned from a three-week hiatus. To those of you who've been awaiting this next chapter, thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoy it. :)**

* * *

Chapter 6

"Well, everybody . . ." Don adjusted himself in his seat, "this is it—the last scene. What do you say we finish this up and then take a break?"

Dick threw his hands up and stretched over the back of his chair. "I say hallelujah!"

"I concur with Dick," I replied. After almost two solid hours of going through the script—reading, revising, and even returning to earlier scenes to make changes—the four of us were eager for a respite.

"All right, then." Don glanced at me over the top of his glasses. "Carrie, why don't you read for Mary Poppins; Bob, you read for Michael; and I'll read for Jane. Dick, you can start us off with the scene heading."

"You got it." Dick looked down at his copy of the script. "'Scene 12—Nursery and Living Room. In the living room, a worried Mrs. Banks, Ellen, and Cook are talking amongst themselves while the Constable talks on the phone. In the nursery, Michael and Jane are watching Mary Poppins pack her carpetbag.'"

"'She doesn't care what will happen to us!'" Bob read Michael's line.

Don cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows, and adopted a girlish falsetto. "'She only said she would stay until the wind changed. Isn't that right, Mary Poppins?'" Unlike Dick and Bob, who used their normal voices regardless of whose lines they were reading, Don fully assumed the persona of every character he read for; and I couldn't help chuckling to myself at his impersonation of Jane. However, I managed to suppress my amusement long enough to read Mary Poppins's part.

"'Will you bring me my hat, Jane?'"

"'Mary Poppins, don't you love us?'" Don pulled his face into such an exaggeratedly pathetic pout that I burst out laughing.

"'And what would happen to me, may I ask, if I loved all the children I said goodbye to?'" I gasped amidst a fit of giggles.

"There, Don—look what you did." Bob gestured to me and shook his head with mock exasperation. "You broke her."

By that time, I had almost succeeded in bringing my laughter under control, but Bob's dry remark set it off all over again. Then, suddenly, that all-too-familiar tightness took hold in my lungs; and I crumpled forward, pressing one hand to my mouth and the other to my chest as a series of coughs racked my body. Don and Bob ceased their banter and looked at me with concern. "You all right, Carrie?" Don asked.

I nodded. _Liar_, taunted a voice in the back of my head, but I ignored it. Then, mustering all my strength, I drew a long, deep breath and held it, straining against the urge to cough again. After five seconds, I blew it out slowly, then reached for my glass of water and took a drink. When I finished, I looked up to see the three men staring at me.

"Sorry," I sighed. "I guess I haven't laughed that hard in a while."

"Are you okay now?" Don asked.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I assured him.

Dick pointed to the script. "Should I read the next part, then?"

I nodded. "Go ahead."

"All right, where were we?" He scanned over the page. "Oh, here we are. 'Mary Poppins continues to silently pack her bag.'"

Don took the next part. "The Constable, talking on the phone, says, 'Yes sir . . . George W. Banks. 17 Cherry Tree Lane. About six foot one. Yes, we rang the bank. No sign of him!'"

I read Ellen's line. "'Wouldn't hurt to let them drag the river!'"

"'Really, Ellen!'" Bob read for Mrs. Banks.

"'He seemed to be such a fine, stable gentleman, sir!'" Don read for the Constable again. "He's still speaking into the phone at that point," he clarified.

"That's the last line on the page," I observed. "But that's not the end, is it?"

"No, it's not," Don confirmed. "The ending is a . . . work in progress."

"Do you have a concept in mind?"

He sighed. "Not exactly. We've been tossing ideas around for over a week now, but we haven't come up with anything satisfactory."

I nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, maybe I can help."

"That's what we were hoping," he confessed with a grin. Then, taking a deep breath, he flipped his copy of the script shut and folded his arms on the table. "All right; now that we've made it through that, let's take a break and meet back here in ten minutes."

"Finally," Dick sighed with relief as the four of us rose from our chairs.

Bob grabbed his cane and headed for the door. "I'm gonna go ask Dolly to bring in some sandwiches and fruit."

"Good idea," Don agreed.

After Bob left the room, I meandered over to one of the pinup boards and scanned my eyes across the various sketches that were tacked to it. "What are all these drawings for?" I inquired at last.

"That's some of the concept art for the movie," Don explained, coming to stand beside me. "We find it's helpful to have a visual—plus, it's fun. This one here is Michael in his chalk world outfit." He pointed to the one I was looking at, which depicted a young boy clad in white shorts, a blue-and-white pinstriped jacket, and a yellow straw hat with a blue ribbon.

I smiled. "They're charming. Who draws them?"

"Most of them are drawn by our concept artists—people from the animation department," he replied.

"Don's too modest," Dick interjected from across the room. "At least half the drawings in here are his work."

I turned to Don. "Is that true?"

A self-conscious smile tugged at his mouth. "Well, since he mentions it, yes, I did draw some of them." Returning his gaze to the board, he reached out and straightened a few of the sketches that were hanging crookedly. "I started out here at Disney Studios working in animation, and most of us animators tend to think in terms of storyboards. So when I'm working on a screenplay like this one, I'll often make sketches to help us visualize the story."

"He can make entire scenes come to life on paper," Dick affirmed.

"That's quite impressive," I remarked.

"Well, Dick is rather liberal in his praise, but thank you," Don replied with a smile. "I was originally thinking we'd go over the concept art with you tomorrow," he continued, "but since it's only 3:30, we might be able to do it before you leave today."

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, that'd be good."

Just then the door opened, and Bob entered the room with Dolly close behind, pushing a cart with a plate of sandwiches and a fruit tray. "Here you go, gentlemen," she announced. "Oh, and Carrie, your ride's waiting outside."

"What?" I asked, bewildered. "I thought he wasn't supposed to pick me up till five."

"Well, Walt figured you might be a little tired after your first day here, so he had me call your driver and ask him to come early," she explained.

"Oh, he did, did he?" I muttered. Aloud I replied, "Thank you, Dolly, for letting me know. I'll be right down." Dolly nodded, smiling, and began laying out the food.

With a small sigh of annoyance, I returned to the table to collect my jacket and purse. "Well," I said to the three men, "it appears I have to go now. Thank you for a wonderful first day; I really enjoyed it."

"Good, we're glad to hear that," Bob replied. Dick, who had just taken a large bite of sandwich, expressed his agreement with a thumbs-up.

I nodded. "Well, then, I'll see you all tomorrow. Have a good evening."

"You too!" chorused Bob, Dick, and Dolly.

"I'll walk you out," Don said, opening the door for me.

As we strode through the hallway, I heaved another sigh. "I'm sorry we couldn't go over the concept art."

"It's fine, don't worry about it," Don reassured me. "We'll just do it tomorrow."

"But we had enough time; we could have done it today." I shook my head in frustration. "Walt didn't even ask whether I wanted to leave early. If he had, I would have said no."

He shrugged. "Well, that's Walt for you. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm by it."

I pursed my lips. "Hmm."

After several moments of silence, Don changed the subject. "I noticed you spoke up a lot more during the second half of the reading."

"Just following some good advice," I replied with a smile, glancing up at him as I did so.

He caught my eye and grinned. "I'm glad you did."

We made it to the front door; and as we emerged from the air-conditioned building into the sun-baked heat of the afternoon, Don asked, "Well . . . anything else before you leave? Any other comments?"

I opened my mouth to say _no_, but then I remembered something that had been tugging at the back of my mind for most of the afternoon. "Actually, yes, there is," I confessed. "Mr. Banks—his character in the script seems so . . ." I trailed off, unsure of what exactly I was trying to convey.

"What?" Don prompted.

"I don't know, just . . . something about him . . ." After another few seconds, I shook my head. "Never mind. I'm not quite sure what it is."

"Well, let us know if you figure it out," he said. By that time, we had arrived at the spot along the sidewalk where Ralph had parked the car and was standing patiently beside it with his hands clasped.

"Ready to go, Miss Schultz?" he asked.

"Well, Mr. Disney seems to think I am," I replied wryly. Ralph's face registered confusion, but he smiled anyway. Meanwhile, I turned once more to the man still standing beside me. "Thank you for everything, Don. I have to admit, I was a little nervous at first; but you and the Shermans made me feel comfortable here. I really appreciate that."

A warm grin spread across his face. "The pleasure is all ours, Carrie. It's wonderful to have you here."

I flushed with delight. "Well . . . I guess I'd better go now."

He nodded. "See you tomorrow."

"Looking forward to it." With a final parting smile, I climbed into the car.

Ralph shut the door behind me, then hurried around the other side and climbed into the driver's seat. As the car pulled away from the sidewalk, I looked out the window to see Don waving goodbye. I lifted my hand and waved back.

"Nice guy," Ralph remarked after I turned around.

"Yes, he is," I murmured, smiling to myself.

xxxxx

Back in my hotel room, I set my purse on the nightstand, kicked off my pumps, and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. After staring at the ceiling for several seconds, I turned my head to look at Mickey Mouse where he sat on the floor by the dresser. "Well, we made it through the first day," I remarked to him. "And it wasn't so bad after all."

He smiled as if he'd known all along.

With a soft chuckle, I let my eyelids fall shut. _Just a quick rest . . . _

xxxxx

When I opened my eyes, the room was dark. Disoriented, I sat up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. 7:36. I covered my face with my hands and groaned. How had I let myself fall asleep—for three and a half hours, no less? At last, with a sigh of resignation, I stood up, stretched, and staggered over to the closet to find a more comfortable dress.

Once I had changed, I sat down on the bed again and ordered up a belated dinner tray. Then I propped the pillows against the headboard, retrieved the contract and a pencil from my purse, and settled down to comb through the pages of legalese.

When at last I reached the dotted line, I gave a nod of satisfaction. The terms of the contract were exactly as my agent had described, including the two most important stipulations—live-action, script approval—all right there in black and white. Just as I was searching through my purse for a pen with which to sign, the phone rang. I glanced at the clock—8:30. Forgetting the contract, I set my purse aside and leaned over to pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Carrie, it's Sam."

"I figured as much," I replied with a smile. "But I didn't expect you to call this late! It's, what, 10:30 your time?"

"Oh, yeah." She giggled sheepishly. "James took me out to dinner tonight. We got to talking and lost track of the time."

"So I take it you enjoyed yourselves?"

"We did." She gave a sigh of delight. "But enough about me. How was your first day at the studio?"

"It was great," I affirmed. "Everyone was very nice, especially the three men I'm working with. We spent most of our time today going over the script."

"And you like it so far?"

"I think so. There are a few things I might like to change, but I think they've got a good start."

"Good." She paused, then spoke again. "So . . . three men, huh? Are they cute?"

"They're married!" I exclaimed indignantly. "Well, two of them are."

"And the third one?"

"Don't even go there, Sam. I can't be thinking about stuff like that; I need to focus on making this movie. Not to mention there's this thing called professional conduct."

"Aw, too bad," she lamented. I rolled my eyes. "Well, tell me more about these men," she prompted. "What exactly do they do?"

"Well, Dick and Bob Sherman are the songwriters," I explained. "They showed me some of what they've come up with so far—and, Sam, it's amazing! I can't wait to hear the rest. And then there's Don DaGradi, the scriptwriter—he's pretty much the one in charge of this whole project. I think you'd like him. He was very welcoming, and he seems open to my suggestions, which is a pleasant surprise."

"Ah," she said knowingly. "I'll bet he's the one who's still single, isn't he?"

"Sam, for heaven's sake—"

"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "So, is he attractive?"

I shook my head. "You are incorrigible, Samantha."

I could practically hear her triumphant grin. "And proud of it!"

"_Anyway_," I pointedly changed the subject, "things went very well today. I think this whole thing is going to work out even better than I expected."

"Well, I'm glad you had a good time," she said. Then, after a pause, "So, did you get to meet . . . _him?_"

"Walt, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, I did."

"What's he like?" she asked.

I furrowed my brow thoughtfully. "You know, I'm not quite sure. I mean, when I first met him, he came across a lot like he does on television—all warm and fatherly, like the sort of guy everyone would want as a friend. But now . . . I don't know, I'm starting to get the sense that there's another side to him."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just . . . never mind. It's too complicated to explain. Whatever it is, I doubt it'll cause any problems. Oh, and speaking of which, I just finished looking over the contract. Everything seems to check out, so I'm going to sign it and hand it in tomorrow."

There was a moment's pause before she replied. "You sure you want to do that now?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I asked, surprised.

"I don't know . . . maybe no reason," she answered hesitantly. "It's just that I know how much _Mary Poppins _means to you, and I'd hate to have you run into any unpleasant surprises. And maybe you won't; maybe it'll all go smoothly, like you said . . . but if I were you, I'd hold off on signing the contract a little while longer, just in case you need that extra leverage."

"I see your point," I conceded, "but I honestly don't think it's necessary. The terms I specified are right there, and legally, that's all that matters."

"I know," she said. "But please, will you at least hold onto it for one more day? And then if you still feel fine about it, I won't try to talk you out of signing."

Though I didn't understand why she was so concerned about it, I also didn't see any point in causing her needless anxiety. "All right," I agreed. "If it means that much to you, I guess there can't be any harm in waiting."

"Good." She sounded relieved. "I know you think I'm silly for worrying about these things. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"Thanks, Sam. I really do appreciate it." I drew a deep breath. "You know, I wish you were here right now. It feels strange being out here all alone."

"But you're not alone, Carrie, not really," she assured me. "I'm right here, whenever you need me."

I smiled. "Thank you."

"Anytime." After a few moments, she spoke again. "So, you're still doing okay, right? You sound really tired."

"Sam . . ."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just . . . I had to ask."

"I'm fine," I assured her. "Really. It's been a long day, that's all."

"Okay." She heaved a sigh. "Well, in that case, you should get some sleep."

"You're right," I agreed. "I love you, Sam."

"Love you, too, sis. Talk to you tomorrow!" With that, the line clicked shut; and I hung up the phone, put the unsigned contract back in my purse, and got up to prepare for bed.

xxxxx

Half an hour later, I climbed into bed, turned off the lamp, and lay there staring at the wall as my mind replayed the most significant parts of the day—including what my sister had asked me about Don. _"So, is he attractive?"_ Earlier, I had managed to dodge the question; but lying in the still darkness, alone with my thoughts, I had to admit that indeed he was.

_But so what? _I asked myself. _Heaven knows, I have much more important things to worry about. _Sam had only been teasing, after all; there was no reason to take any of it seriously. And the strange little flutter I felt every time Don smiled at me? That was nothing, absolutely nothing. Thus reassured, I turned over and closed my eyes . . . but the last image that hovered in my mind before being overtaken by sleep was that wide, playful grin with the twinkling brown eyes and the deep dimples in the cheeks.


End file.
